She liked his blunt, clever face, the half-ugly likeness of his father's with its jutting eyebrows and jutting chin, its fine grave mouth and greenish-brown eyes; mouth and eyes that had once been so kind and were now so queer. Eliot's face made her keep on wondering what it was doing. She had to look at it.
One day, when she was looking, their eyes met. She had just time to see that his mouth had softened as if he were pleased to find her looking at him. And his eyes were different; not cross, but dark now and unhappy; they made her feel as if she had hurt him.
They were in the library. Uncle Robert was there, sitting in his chair behind them, at the other end of the long room. She had forgotten Uncle Robert.
"Oh, Eliot," she said, "have I done anything?"
"Not that I know of." His face stiffened.
"You look as if I had. Have I?"
"Don't talk such putrid rot. As if I cared what you did. Can't you leave me alone?"
And he jumped up and left the room.
And there was Uncle Robert in his chair, watching her, looking kind and sorry.
"What's the matter with him?" she said. "Why is he so cross?"