"Ah!" said the man, with a trace of sharpness, "then they were not particularly agreeable?"
It seemed to Agatha that he was tactless in suggesting anything of the kind, but she answered candidly.
"One could hardly go quite so far as that," she said. "Still, I couldn't help a feeling that it was rather an effort for them to be gracious to me."
"They did what they could to make things pleasant when they were first told of our engagement."
Agatha was too worn-out to be altogether on her guard, which was partly why she had admitted as much as she had done, though his relatives' attitude had wounded her, and she answered without reflection.
"I have fancied that was because they never quite believed it would lead to anything."
She knew this was the truth now, though it was the first time the explanation had occurred to her. Gregory's folks, who were naturally acquainted with his character, had, it seemed, not expected him to carry his promise out. She, however, felt that she had been injudicious when she heard his little harsh laugh.
"I'm afraid they never had a very great opinion of me," he said.
"Then," said Agatha, looking up at him, "it will be our business to prove them wrong; but I can't help feeling that you have undertaken a big responsibility, Gregory. There must be so much that I ought to do, and I know so little about your work in this country." She turned, and glanced with a shiver at the dim, white prairie. "It looks so forbidding and unyielding. It must be very hard to turn it into wheat fields—to break it in."
It was merely a hint of what she felt, and it was rather a pity that Hawtrey, who lacked imagination, usually contented himself with the most obvious meaning of the spoken word. Things might have gone differently had he responded with comprehending sympathy.