Next I perceived, with that facility for reading the true inwardness of situations which comes readily enough when the key is supplied, that Charlotte was not only longer and less particular about her tasks than she used to be, but that a change was apparent in her own demeanor. She was less responsive, less brisk, more wanting in that trigness which had been our special delight.
Charlotte had never been easy of personal approach. With all the decorum and deferential solicitude for our comfort so happily characteristic of her English training and tradition—and so soothing to Canadian nerves—I was quite aware that there was no solid basis for any real interest in our welfare. It was a veneer, an accomplishment like her clothes-brushing feats, and her genius in serving tea. None the less was it balm to long-wounded dignity, and lacerated feelings.
I had abandoned myself to it with the joy of the disinherited returning to his own. Gradually our intercourse had taken on that semi-confidential character which pleasantly assumes perfection on both sides, and leans to suggestiveness rather than to command.
I knew this was wrong, of course, but it
