These words, which so exactly embodied her own idea, came to her as a shock, a brutal blow from him.
“Vincent!” she cried protestingly.
“I don’t know what it is that has your attention now, what private anxieties that I am not privileged to share—”
“You have been ill.”
“But not imbecile. Do you suppose I’ve missed one tone of your voice, or haven’t understood what has been going on in your mind? Have you lived with me five years and think me a forgiving man—”
“May I ask what you have to forgive?”
“Do you suppose a pat to my pillow or an occasional kind word takes the place to me of what our relation used to be?”
“You speak as if our relation was over.”
“Have you been imagining I was going to come whining to you for a return of your love and respect? What nonsense! Love makes love, and indifference makes indifference.”
“You expect me to say I am indifferent to you?”