“Where’s the paper?” asked Edward. “I haven’t read the leading articles yet.”
“I’m sure I don’t know.”
They sat till dinner, Edward methodically going through the Standard, column after column; Bertha turning over the pages of her book, trying to understand, but occupied the whole time only with her injuries. They ate the meal almost in silence, for Edward was not talkative. He merely remarked that soon they would be having new potatoes and that he had met Dr. Ramsay. Bertha answered in mono-syllables.
“You’re very quiet, Bertha,” he remarked, later in the evening. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing!”
“Got a headache?”
“No!”
He made no more inquiries, satisfied that her silence was due to natural causes. He did not seem to notice that she was in any way different from usual. She held herself in as long as she could, but finally burst out, referring to his remark of an hour before.
“Do you care if I have a headache or not?” It was hardly a question so much as a taunt.
He looked up with surprise. “What’s the matter?”