“I agree that may be a reason. Otherwise she’s a dull woman,” said Katharine. “At least,” she added, as if to qaulify her abruptness, “I find it difficult to talk to her.”
“Because you expect every one else to take all the trouble. I’ve seen her sit silent a whole evening,” he said, turning to Mary, as he had frequently done already. “Don’t you find that, too? Sometimes when we’re alone, I’ve counted the time on my watch”—here he took out a large gold watch, and tapped the glass—“the time between one remark and the next. And once I counted ten minutes and twenty seconds, and then, if you'll believe me, she only said ‘Um!’”
“I'm sure I’m sorry,” Katharine apologized. “I know it’s a bad habit, but then, you see, at home———”
The rest of her excuse was cut short, so far as Mary was concerned, by the closing of the door. She fancied she could hear William finding fresh fault on the stairs. A moment later, the door-bell rang again, and Katharine reappeared, having left her purse on a chair. She soon found it, and said, pausing for a moment at the door, and speaking differently as they were alone:
“I think being engaged is very bad for the character.” She shook her purse in her hand until the coins jingled, as if she alluded merely to this example of her forgetfulness. But the remark puzzled Mary; it seemed to refer to something else; and her manner had changed so strangely, now that William was out of hearing, that she could not help looking at her for an explanation. She looked almost stern, so that Mary, trying to smile at her, only succeeded in producing a silent stare of interrogation.
As the door shut for the second time, she sank on to the floor in front of the fire, trying, now that their bodies were not there to distract her, to piece together her impressions of them as a whole. And, though priding herself, with all other men and women, upon an infallible eye for character, she could not feel at all certain that she knew what motives
