“What's the matter with me?” thought Peter. “What have I done? It's like being out in a fog.”
At last one evening, after dinner, when Clare and Mrs. Rossiter had gone upstairs he demanded an answer.
“Look here, Cards, what have I done? You profess to be a friend of mine. Tell me what crime I've committed?”
Cards' eyes had been laughing. Suddenly he was serious. His dark, clean-cut face was stern, almost accusing.
“Profess, Peter? I hope you don't doubt it?”
“No, of course not. You know you're the best friend I've got. Tell me—what have I done?”
“Done?”
“Yes—you and Clare and her mother—all of you keep me at arms' length—why?”
“Do you really want a straight talking?”
“Of course.”