“I do not understand you, and from the tone in which you speak, I would rather not. You are very angry, and you have reason to be—heaven knows! But you are wrong in being angry with me.”
“Am I?” George asked, recovering some control of his voice and manner. “I am at least wrong in showing it,” he added, a moment later. “Do you wish me to stay here?”
“A few minutes longer, if you will be so kind,” Grace answered, sitting down again, though George remained standing before her. “You are wrong to be angry with me, Mr. Wood. I have only repeated to you my sister’s words. I have done my best to tell you the truth as gently as possible.”
“I do not doubt it. Your mission is not an easy one. Why did your sister not tell me the truth herself? Is she afraid of me?”
“Do you think it would have been any easier to bear, if she had told you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Grace asked.
“Because it is better to hear such things directly than at second hand. Because it is easier to bear such words when they are spoken by those we love, than by those who hate us. Because when hearts are to be broken it is braver to do it oneself than to employ a third person.”
“You do not know what you are saying. I never hated you.”
“Miss Fearing,” said George, who was rapidly becoming exasperated beyond endurance, “will you allow me to take my leave?”