“Please don’t walk about like that, you don’t know what a headache is. You—don’t understand things.”
“Don’t I?” he asked, standing with his back to the fire; “then why not try to teach me?”
“You always think you know everything, and are always right and that I’m always wrong. But I’m right sometimes.”
“Why, Aggy, what on earth have I done to deserve such a slating?”
As she did not make any reply he went across to the bedside, and, stooping down, kissed her, upon which she turned impatiently away.
“If you don’t want me to treat you as a child you shouldn’t behave like one,” he said, and, after a moment’s hesitation, walked out of the room.
CHAPTER XVII
While the sun was shining cheerily at Brighton the rain was pouring down drearily in London, Acacia Grove looking its very worst under the leaden sky; the roadway a sea of mud, the leafless branches of the trees dripping and streaming, the evergreen shrubs in the scrubby gardens none the less dirty for their washing; even the sharp rat-tat, rat-tat, of the postman as he went from house to house sounding dismal, as if all the letters he bore must announce death or disaster.
Squire had finished his frugal breakfast, and stood, newspaper in hand, looking aimlessly out of the window. The trouble through which he was passing had left no trace or mark upon his face, but there was a restless misery in his eyes. Sighing heavily, he held up the paper and glanced at it without purpose, almost unconsciously. “Sunshine at Brighton” was the heading of an article down which his eye ran without comprehension until Maddison’s name fixed his attention:—“Another well-known face occasionally seen on the King’s Road is that of Mr. George Maddison, the A.R.A., who is staying at his cottage at Rottingdean.”