Then you two entered into this absurd engagement.
"Now what has it been since?
William wrote me himself not a fortnight ago that he'd been worried to death over Bertram for weeks past, he's been so moody, so irritable, so fretted over his work, so unlike himself.

And his picture has _failed_ dismally.

Of course William doesn't understand; but I do.

I know you've probably quarrelled, or something.

You know how flighty and unreliable you can be sometimes, Billy, and I don't say that to mean anything against you, either--that's _your_ way.