“Well, I can only speak for myself—but—to tell the truth, old boy—I think you've been rather hard on poor little Clare.”
For the first time since his marriage Peter resented Cards' words. “Poor little Clare”—wasn't that a little too intimate?
“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice a little harder.
“Well—I don't think you understand her, Peter.”
“Explain.”
“She's a happy, merry person if ever there was one in this world. She wants all the happiness you can give her—”
“Well?”
“Well, you don't seem to see that. Of course young Stephen's death—”
“Let's leave that—” Peter's voice was harder again.
“Oh, all right—just as you please. But most men would have seen what a shock it must be to a girl, so young, who knew so little about the cruelty of life. You didn't—you don't mind, Peter, do you?—you didn't seem to think of that. Never tried to cheer her up, take her about, take her out of herself. You just wrapped yourself up—”