Her right hand stole to the keys, and she pressed down one note so gently that it did not strike; she watched the little hammer that rose till it touched the string and then fell back into its place.
'You said I should change--I remember your words.' Her voice was quiet and thoughtful, whatever she felt.

'I suppose there is something about me now that grates on your nerves.' There was no resentment in her tone, nor the least intonation of sarcasm.

But Lushington said nothing; he was thinking of the time when he had thought her an ideal of refined girlhood, and had believed in his heart that she could never stand the life of the stage, and would surely give it up in sheer disgust, no matter how successful she might be.

Yet now, she did not even seem offended by what he had told her.
So much the better, he thought; for he was far too truthful to take back one word in order to make peace, even if she burst into tears.
Possibly, of the two, his reflections were sadder than hers just then, but she interrupted them with a question.
'Can you tell me of any one thing I do that jars on you ?' she asked.
'Or is it what I say, or my way of speaking?
I should like to know.' 'It's nothing, and it's everything,' answered Lushington, taking refuge in a commonplace phrase, 'and I suppose no one else would ever notice it.

But I'm so awfully sensitive about certain things.