"No, Roddy, thank you. That's not fair on her. It can't be helped. You go over with Nita."
Then there occurred between them one of those little situations that were now so frequent. Rachel was hurt, but was determined to show nothing; Roddy knew that she was hurt, but was quite unable to improve relations, partly because he had no words, partly because "a feller looks such a fool tryin' to explain," partly because there was in him a quality of sullen obstinacy that was mingled, most strangely, with his kindness and sentiment.
He was absolutely ready to fling Nita and the Rockingtons into limbo, but he was quite unable to set about such a business.
Moreover now there was Nita Raseley—It was at this moment that Jacob, having fought in the dark recesses of the sofa between his dislike of Roddy and his love of tea, declared for his stomach and walked slowly, and with the dignity required by the presence of an enemy, across the room.
"Hullo! there's the mongrel—" Roddy endeavoured to cover earlier awkwardness by easy laughter, but the laughter was not easy and his attempt to pat Jacob was frustrated by a sidling movement on the dog's part.
Then Nita Raseley laughed.
Roddy now thought that women were damnable, that his wife had no right to drag a mongrel like that about with her, that he'd show them if they laughed at him, and that if Rachel couldn't come to-morrow, why then, she must just lump it—The last thought of all was that Rachel was always finding a grievance in something.
He waited a little while, talked in a stiff and unnatural fashion and then went.
"This weather is very trying, dear, isn't it?" said Nita. "If I were you I really would go and lie down. You do look so seedy!"
"I think I will," said Rachel.