“Yes.... Isn’t she—wonderful!”
“Oh, well, if two people simply can’t understand each other, that’s all there is to it.”
“But she understands. She just talks too much. She won’t realize that she’s only a child.”
“Oh, what’s the use!” exclaimed Baron. He thrust his hands into his pockets and strolled through the house, up into the library.
He took down a copy of “Diana of the Crossways,” and opened it at random, staring darkly at words which the late Mr. Meredith never wrote:
“Why couldn’t she have made allowances? Why couldn’t she have overlooked things which plainly weren’t meant to be the least offensive?”
Obscurities, perhaps, but what does one expect of Meredith?
He meditated long and dejectedly. And then he heard his mother in the sitting-room.
He put aside his book and assumed a light, untroubled air. “Better have it out now,” he reflected, as he opened the door and went into the sitting-room.
“Where is the Queen of Sheba?” asked Mrs. Baron.