She arrived in a state little short of hysterical.
'Connie,' she cried, almost before the servant who announced her was out of the room, 'I know you don't like me, but oh, I'm so unhappy!' Mrs.Willoughby softened at sight of her evident distress.

'Why, what's the matter ?' she asked, and made her sit down beside her on the sofa.
'It's awful,' she said, and repeated, 'it's awful.' 'Yes, child, but what is ?' asked Mrs.Willoughby.
'All is--I mean everything is,' sobbed Clarice.
Mrs.Willoughby recognised that though the correction amended the grammar, it did not simplify the meaning.

She pressed for something more precise.
'Don't be irritable, Connie,' quavered Clarice, 'because that's just what Sidney is--and always.

It's so difficult to make you understand.
But he's just a lot of wires, and they keep twanging all day.

He nags--there's no other word for it--he nags about everything--the servants, his publishers, the dinner, and--oh!--oh!--why can't he wear boots in the morning ?' The point of the question was lost on Mrs.Willoughby.She began to expostulate with Clarice for magnifying trifles.
'Of course,' replied Clarice, sitting up suddenly--she had been half lying on the sofa in Mrs.Willoughby's arms--'I know they are trifles; I know that.