The conversation dragged, and after five minutes of heavy silence Miss Glover rose to go. When the door was closed upon her, Bertha sank back in her chair, thinking. This was one of her unhappy days--Eddie had walked into Blackstable, and she had wished to accompany him. “I don’t think you’d better come with me,” he said. “I’m in rather a hurry and I shall walk fast.” “I can walk fast too,” she said, her face clouding over. “No, you can’t--I know what you call walking fast. If you like you can come and meet me on the way back.” “Oh, you do everything you can to hurt me. It looks as if you welcomed an opportunity of being cruel.” “How unreasonable you are, Bertha. Can’t you see that I’m in a hurry, and I haven’t got time to saunter along and chatter about the buttercups.” “Well, let’s drive in.” “That’s impossible. The mare isn’t well, and the pony had a hard day yesterday; he must rest to-day.” “It’s simply because you don’t want me to come. It’s always the same, day after day. You invent anything to get rid of me.” She burst into tears, knowing that what she said was unjust, but feeling notwithstanding extremely ill-used. Edward smiled with irritating good temper. “You’ll be sorry for what you’ve said when you’ve calmed down, and then you’ll want me to forgive you.” She looked up, flushing. “You think I’m a child and a fool.” “No, I just think you’re out of sorts to-day.” Then he went out, whistling, and she heard him give an order to the gardener in his usual manner, as cheerful as if nothing had happened. Bertha knew that he had already forgotten the little scene. Nothing affected his good humour. She might weep, she might tear her heart out (metaphorically), and bang it on the floor, Edward would not be perturbed; he would still be placid, good-tempered, forbearing. Hard words, he said, broke nobody’s bones--“Women are like chickens, when they cluck and cackle sit tight and take no notice!”