She poured it out.
"I'm only trying to assure you I won't thank you!" she managed to say. "I won't, really. You've been too nice. I'll do just whatever you wish."
"Um!" he grunted.
She settled her elbows on the table again. She looked out straight before her, and her face grew thoughtful. There was a little silence. Then she looked at him and smiled; it was an odd little smile, half-humorous, half sad.
"I'm getting like that," she said, "all bad-tempered and horrid and cross! I was horrid to you, and to Denis,—to everyone. I—I used not to be grumpy and nasty. I'm just growing that way. In books they don't. When there's trouble and things all go wrong, they get sweeter and sweeter. I don't. I feel sometimes all shuddery with snappishness. I never used to feel like that—" Her voice died away in a plaintive little murmur.
"Books are all rot!" he declared vigorously.
"Oh, Ted, all of them?"
She was laughing again, but the shadow of wistfulness still clouded her eyes.
"All those with goody-goody heroines hanging around like dying ducks in a thunder-storm!" he asserted.
"You don't mind if I'm horrid and grumpy, then?"