“No—very human.”
She shook her head, and I thought her lip trembled a little.
“It’s always so, and I can’t help it. I’m always doing the wrong thing with you.”
I did not answer this, for I was afraid to.
“It’s been a miserably unsatisfactory time,” she said, flicking the horses suddenly with her whip, so that they pranced about for quite a moment before she could control them. “I had looked forward so much to your coming, to going back to the old days, Davy. They were the best—and instead, we have only been fencing with each other. We never say what we mean. And I—I show you my very worst self—my worst! Everything I say to you, you misunderstand.”
“There you are wrong.”
“You do, you do! You are always ascribing to me motives that aren’t there, and so, David, there are two things I can’t bear from you, ridicule, and—pity!”
“Good heavens, nothing is further from my mind.”
“That’s not true,” she said obstinately. “David, why can’t we say the things we think to each other? Is there any reason?”