"Have you and Roger quarrelled?" she asked abruptly.
The girl started nervously. She had not expected this as a consequence of Roger's taciturnity.
"No," she said, stumbling a little. "No, we haven't—quarrelled."
Lady Gertrude scrutinised her with keen, light-grey eyes that had the same penetrating glance as Roger's own, and Nan felt herself colouring under it.
"You've displeased him in some way or other," insisted Lady Gertrude, and waited for a reply.
Nan flared up at the older woman's arbitrary manner.
"That's rather a funny way to put it, isn't it?" she said quickly.
"I'm—I'm not a child, you know."
"You behave very much like one at times," retorted Lady Gertrude. "I've done my utmost since you came here to fit you to be Roger's wife, and without any appreciable result. You seem to be exactly as irresponsible and thoughtless as when you arrived."
The cold, contemptuous criticism flicked the girl's raw nerves like the point of a lash. She sprang to her feet, her eyes very bright, as though tears were not far distant, her young breast rising and falling unevenly with her hurrying breath.
"Is that what you think of me?" she said unsteadily. "Because then I'd better go away. It's what I want—to go away! I—I can't bear it here any longer." Her fingers gripped the edge of the table tensely. She was struggling to keep down the rising sobs which threatened to choke her speech. "I know you don't want me to be Roger's wife—you don't think I'm fit for it! You've just said so! And—and you've let me see it every day. I'll go—I'll go!"