"I've had a quarrel with him. A bad quarrel. I don't want him to know I'm here, because if he does he'll think it his duty to write and warn you against me."
This was the truth, and, as truth often does, it conveyed a false impression.
"Gardiner?" said Denis, incredulous. "He would never do that."
"He would, he would, you don't know. He might not to any one else, but he would to you."
This was true again, and again misleading. Denis was puzzled. "I thought you and he were—friends," he said.
"Not now. He hates me."
"Gardiner hates you?"
"Yes. Thinks me wicked. Wouldn't willingly be under the same roof. He does, he does. And we can never make it up. I'm angry with Lettice too, at present, but I shall make it up with her, because I love her. But not with Mr. Gardiner—never, never."
"Well, if you say so," said Denis, "but I thought—"
Dorothea looked up with a flash of understanding. No need to put into words what he had thought about her and Gardiner.