"She says she was never happier."
"Well, then," I decided, sagely, "it must be thinking, as you say."
We agreed to take no notice of what might be only moody crotchets after all; they would soon pass. We no longer pressed her to join our diversions about the lamp, but welcomed her in the old spirit when she came willingly or of her own accord. Yet even then it was not the same: there was some mute, mysterious barrier to the old, free, happy intercourse. Some word of Dove's or mine, mere foolery, perhaps, but meant in cheerfulness, would dance out gayly across the table where we sat at cards, but slink back home again, disgraced. What could this discord be? we asked ourselves—this strange impassiveness, this disapproval, as it seemed to us—negative, but no less obvious for that?
There was a heaviness in the air. We breathed more freely in Letitia's absence. We grew self-conscious in that mute, accusing presence, which I resented and my wife deplored. Dove even confessed to a feeling of guiltiness, yet could remember no offence.
"What have I done?" I asked my wife.
"What have I done?" asked she.
At meals, especially, we were ill at ease. The very viands, even those famous dishes of Dove's own loving handiwork, met with disfavor instead of praise. Letitia had abandoned meats; now she declined Dove's pies! Pastry was innutritious, she declared, meats not intended for man at all, and even of green things she ate so mincingly that my little housewife was in despair.
"What can I get for you, dear?" she would ask, anxiously. "What would you like?"
"My love," Letitia would reply, flushing with annoyance, "I am perfectly satisfied."
"But I'll get you anything, Letitia."