“Oh, yes!” 

He drew himself up rather coldly. 

“So do most ladies, I believe.” 

“One can’t help liking a person who talks and laughs, and is bright and kind, better than one who never speaks, and glides about like a ghost, and looks coldly at you if you speak to her,” I burst out, apologetically at first, but warming into vehemence towards the close of my speech. 

“Perhaps she means to be kind,” said he gently. 

“Then she ought to make her meaning plainer. She can’t think it is kind to fix her eyes upon me as if I were something not human, if I laugh; to give me her hand so coldly and unresponsively that it seems like a dead hand in mine, and at other times to take no more notice of me than if I were not there. Besides, she knows that it is the first time I have ever left home, and she must see sometimes that I am not happy.” 

Mr. Reade suddenly stooped towards me, and then straightened himself again just as suddenly, without any remark; but he cleared his throat. I remembered that I had no right to make this confession to a comparative stranger, and I added quickly--“I ought not to talk as if I were ill-treated. I am not at all. If she would only not be quite so cold!” 

“Perhaps her own troubles are very heavy and hard to bear.” 

“Oh, no, they are not!” I replied confidently. “At least, she has a kind husband and a pretty home, and everything she can wish for. And I think it is very selfish of her to give herself up to brooding over the memory of her dead child, instead of trying to please her living husband.” 

“Her dead child?” 

“Yes. She had a boy who died some years ago, and she has never got over it. That is why she is so reserved.” 

“Oh! How long ago did this boy die?” asked he, in a curiously incredulous tone. 

“About five years ago, I think Mr. Rayner said.” 

“Oh, then it was Mr. Rayner who told you?” 

“Yes.” 

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