hand from her shoulder, though he still remained seated by the bed.
“You are right. I see the uselessness of it,” he assented, with an uncontrollable note of irony.
She turned her head at the tone, and fixed her plaintive brimming eyes on him. “You are angry with me!”
“Was that troubling you?” He leaned forward again, with compassion in his face. Sancta simplicitas! was the thought within him.
“I am not angry,” he went on; “be reasonable and try to sleep.”
She started upright, the light masses of her hair floating about her like silken sea-weed lifted on an invisible tide. “Don’t talk like that! I can’t endure to be humoured like a baby. I am unhappy because I can’t see why all these wretched questions should be dragged into our life. I hate to have you always disagreeing with Mr. Tredegar, who is so clever and has so much experience; and yet I hate to see you give way to him, because that makes it appear as if … as if …”
“He didn’t care a straw for my ideas?” Amherst smiled. “Well, he doesn’t—and I never dreamed of making him. So don’t worry about that either.”
“You never dreamed of making him care for your ideas? But then why do you"
[ 199 ]
