"Oh, don't pretend!" was the impatient reply. "You know very well that
you hate my going to Scotland!"

Doris, all on edge, and smarting under the too Jovian look and frown
with which he surveyed her from the hearthrug, declared that, as it was
not a case of her going to Scotland, but of his, she was entirely
indifferent. If he enjoyed it, he was quite right to go. _She_ was going
to enjoy her work in Uncle Charles's studio.

Meadows broke out into an angry attack on her folly and unkindness. But
the more he lost his temper, the more provokingly Doris kept hers. She
sat there, surrounded by his socks and shirts, a trim, determined little
figure--declining to admit that she was angry, or jealous, or offended,
or anything of the kind. Would he please come upstairs and give her his
last directions about his packing? She thought she had put everything
ready; but there were just a few things she was doubtful about.

And all the time she seemed to be watching another Doris--a creature
quite different from her real self. What had come over her? If anybody
had told her beforehand that she could ever let slip her power over her
own will like this, ever become possessed with this silent, obstinate
demon of wounded love and pride, never would she have believed them! She
moved under its grip like an automaton. She would not quarrel with
Arthur. But as no soft confession was possible, and no mending or
undoing of what had happened, to laugh her way through the difficult
hours was all that remained. So that whenever Meadows renewed the
attempt to "have it out," he was met by renewed evasion and "chaff" on
Doris's side, till he could only retreat with as much offended dignity
as she allowed him.