But he's so strange, so different from his time at
the hospital. He will scarcely speak to me or to any one. Why can't he
be agreeable to every one? I want them to like him but how can they
when he won't talk to them and runs away if they come near him? He's
disappointed perhaps at its being so quiet here. It isn't what he
expected to find it, but then isn't that the same for all of us? And
_we_ don't sulk all day. He's disappointed with _me_ perhaps but he
won't tell me what he wants. If I ask him he only says 'Oh, it's all
r-right--it's all r-right'--I hate that 'all r-right' of your
language--so stupid! What a purpose not to say if he wants something?"
I said nothing. My silence urged her to a warmer defence.
"And then he makes such mistakes--always everything wrong that he's
asked to do. Doctor Semyonov laughs at him--but of course! He's like a
little boy, a man as old as he is. And Englishmen are always so
practical, capable. Oh! speak to him, Mr. Durward; you can, please. If
_I_ say anything he's at once so miserable.
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