She, surprised that her friendly questions elicited no answer, looked into his face and saw a sullen anger of which hitherto Reardon had never seemed capable.

Her indignation took fire, and she left him to himself.
For a day or two he persevered in his muteness, uttering a word only when it could not be avoided.

Amy was at first so resentful that she contemplated leaving him to his ill-temper and dwelling at her mother's house until he chose to recall her.

But his face grew so haggard in fixed misery that compassion at length prevailed over her injured pride.

Late in the evening she went to the study, and found him sitting unoccupied.
'Edwin--' 'What do you want ?' he asked indifferently.
'Why are you behaving to me like this ?' 'Surely it makes no difference to you how I behave?
You can easily forget that I exist, and live your own life.' 'What have I done to make this change in you ?' 'Is it a change ?' 'You know it is.' 'How did I behave before ?' he asked, glancing at her.
'Like yourself--kindly and gently.' 'If I always did so, in spite of things that might have embittered another man's temper, I think it deserved some return of kindness from you.' 'What "things" do you mean ?' 'Circumstances for which neither of us is to blame.' 'I am not conscious of having failed in kindness,' said Amy, distantly.
'Then that only shows that you have forgotten your old self, and utterly changed in your feeling to me.