“That is a—well, a perversion of the truth. You were thinking of Rees.”
“I suppose I can think of anything I like.”
“Yes, provided—firstly, that you tell the truth about it; and, secondly, that you don’t lose your temper over it. Shall I give another guess, and tell you what you thought about Rees?”
“You can if you like,” said she with an affectation of indifference.
But she turned away to hide the fact that tears were rising to her eyes.
“Well, we won’t talk any more about him,” said he hastily, distressed and irritated that she should cry over what he considered an unworthy object.
“Yes, we will,” cried Deborah, turning suddenly and almost fiercely. “I can’t bear it all by myself any longer; and you, Godwin, who understand things, you can perhaps tell me what is the matter.”
“With Rees?”
“Yes. He’s changed lately, changed altogether; it’s been coming on gradually, but it’s been most plain the last month or six weeks. Haven’t you noticed it?”
“I’ve noticed that he’s become ill-tempered and discontented, and doesn’t seem to think any of us good enough for him.”