After Cleo had quieted down a little she began to tell him of different home matters which she thought would interest him; but after listening for a while to his monosyllabic answers she stopped talking and turned her head away with the old pique and distrust. The distrust or pain of one we love very dearly cuts like a knife and wrings the heart, but where we do not love it irritates. It had always been so with Sinclair. When, during their engagement in America, the girl had shown resentment or anger against him for any cause, it had always had the effect of making him nervous, sometimes almost unkind. On the other hand, when she had put her entire trust in him, believed in and loved him unquestioningly, he seldom could find the heart to undeceive her. Now, as he looked at her pained, averted face, he felt only a vague weariness, almost a dislike for her. There was a touch of impatience in his voice: "What is the matter now, Cleo?"
"Nothing," the girl answered, proudly. "Only I thought perhaps you'd rather not hear me talk. You do not answer when I ask you anything, and I don't think you even hear what I say."
"Don't let us quarrel already, Cleo."
The girl melted. "No!" she said; and her feelings choked her.
"How is your mother?" he asked, mechanically.
She rose from beside him. "Come and see mother, Arthur. She is not at all well, and was quite put out about your not meeting us."
They passed into the mother's room together, and Sinclair was soon forced to listen to the querulous reproaches of the invalid.