"Your manner has been different."
"Then what you mean is that you are not pleased with my manner. My manner is unfortunate."
He was almost oppressively patient and polite.
"Would it not be better," she said, "for me to go?"
"Certainly not. Unless you want to."
"I don't say that I want to. I say it might be better."
Still, with laborious, weary patience, he protested. He was entirely, absolutely satisfied. He had never dreamed of her going. The idea was preposterous, and it was her own idea, not his.
She looked at him steadily, with eyes prepared to draw truth from him by torture.
"And there is no reason?" she said. "You can think of no reason why it would be better for me to go?"
He hesitated a perceptible instant before he answered her.