He felt more at his ease. She was taking it well—so much better than he expected.
"Oh, not very good. I have told you, haven't I, that I don't get on very well with my people."
"Of course; yes. Isn't that rather a pity?"
Possibly conscience was plying its spurs. There was some suggestion underlying the quietness of her manner which he found to bring a sense of uneasiness. He would have preferred that she had got on well at Cailsham. He would rather that she had taken a fancy to Devenish. But she was reasonable—extremely reasonable. He had nothing to grumble at. Yet he could not get away from the sense of something that made each word they said drag slowly, unnaturally into utterance. He tried to shake it from him.
"Well, what is it you've got to speak to me about?" he asked in a fresh tone of voice, as if with a jerk they were starting again over lighter ground.
"Won't you wait till you've finished your tea?" she asked.
"I have finished."
"No more?"
"No, thanks. Do you mind my smoking?"
She lit a match for him in answer—held it out, waiting while he extracted the cigarette from his case.