"I want you to go about with me more, as you used to do before the children took up all your time." Gabriella had just crossed George's will about something--a mere trifle, something about calling on Florrie--and he had turned to her with a look of hatred in his eyes, a kind of nervous, excitable hatred which she had never seen until then.

"Why does he look at me like that ?" she had thought quite coldly; "and why should he have begun all of a sudden to hate me?
Why should my words, my voice, my gestures even, exasperate him so profoundly?
Of course he has stopped loving me, but why should that make him hate me?
I stopped loving him, too, long ago, yet there is only indifference, not hate, in my heart." "You must go about with me more, dear," repeated Mrs.Fowler, in obedience to a vague but amiable instinct, which prompted her to shield George, to deceive Gabriella, to deny the truth of facts, to do anything on earth except acknowledge the actual situation in which she found herself.

"Don't you think she ought to go about more, George ?" "I don't care what she does," returned George brutally, while his blue eyes squinted in the old charming way from which all charm had departed.
"I don't care--I don't care--" He checked himself, snapping his words in two with a virulent outburst of temper, and then, rising hurriedly, as his father entered the room, he left the table with his breakfast uneaten.
"He's so nervous.

I can't imagine what's the matter.

I hope Burrows wasn't in the pantry.