"Of course not." His abrupt manner, so different from his former amiability, kept her silent. Nor did he make any effort to speak. He managed to make her feel that she was intruding. He seemed to want to be alone. That annoyed her.
"Mr. Good," she said sharply. "Just what is the matter with you?"
He made no attempt to deny or evade. That was not like him. But his reply was a little disconcerting, none the less.
"There's nothing the matter with me," he said slowly. "It's you—and they—and the whole darned system of things."
"I don't understand."
"I didn't think you would," he said ungraciously. "If you did you wouldn't wonder why I was out here with my old pipe."
"Won't you explain it to me then?" she asked gently. She realised that he was greatly perturbed about something. His very ungraciousness—so unlike him—betrayed him.
"I can't explain it. I don't think anybody can."
"Won't you try ... please?"
He smoked furiously for a moment, without replying. Then, with a sudden gesture, he emptied the ashes, with a sharp knock on his heel.