"Oh, have you read the book?" said Derrick, colouring.

"Well, no," she said truthfully. "I wanted to read it, but my
father wouldn't let me--he is very particular about what we read."

That frank but not very happily worded answer was like a stab to
poor Derrick. He had given to the world then a book that was not
fit for her to read! This 'Lynwood,' which had been written with
his own heart's blood, was counted a dangerous, poisonous thing,
from which she must be guarded!

Freda must have seen that she had hurt him, for she tried hard to
retrieve her words.

"It was tantalising to have it actually in the house, wasn't it? I
have a grudge against the Hour, for it was the review in that which
set my father against it." Then rather anxious to leave the
difficult subject--"And has your brother quite recovered from his
wound?"

I think she was a little vexed that Derrick did not show more
animation in his replies about Lawrence's adventures during the war;
the less he responded the more enthusiastic she became, and I am
perfectly sure that in her heart she was thinking:

"He is jealous of his brother's fame--I am disappointed in him. He
has grown dull, and absent, and stupid, and he is dreadfully wanting
in small-talk. I fear that his life down in the provinces is
turning him into a bear."