"Nothing has gone wrong: nothing worries me."
Cool, curt replies: no relaxation of his face; not a smile; not a tender look in his eye. Was this Tom? What did it mean? Susan was bewildered; she could do nothing but reiterate helplessly her piteous cry, "Tom, what is the matter?"
He left her immediately after breakfast, with the same strange formal kiss he had given her the night before.
After he had gone, the impression of his altered manner faded somewhat; it was all so new, so strange, that as soon as he was out of her sight, she thought she must have exaggerated it—imagined it.
"I dare say he really was ill without knowing it," she said. "It must be that. He is n't in the least himself. Perhaps he will be better by noon."
Noon came; Tom came. The same cool, reserved manner; the same cool, distant tone; the same terrible silence! Susan now grew seriously alarmed. As soon as the servant had left them alone, she exclaimed:—
"Tom, you shall not treat me in this manner any longer. What have I done?"
"How do I treat you?" he asked coldly.
Susan could not keep the tears back.
"Why, Tom," she said, "you treat me as if I had displeased you most seriously: as if you were mortally offended with me for something. What have I done? I do implore you to tell me."
"You have not done anything. I am not offended," he replied.
