"Pease gave me the place," Jim persisted, "because—you know."
The reference hurt poor Beth, to whom the thought of Pease was distress. "Don't speak of it, dear," she begged.
"It's so," asserted Jim. "But you'd think Mather was my father, from the advice he gave me. Great fun it was, for you to give him another chance at me!"
There was nothing for her except submission. "I'm sorry," she said. But Beth was not meek; she let him see, by tone and manner, that she yielded only because she was overborne. Therefore he gave another thrust to make his conquest sure.
"I'm sorry you don't like my arm about your neck," he said. "Please excuse me for putting it there."
She went close to him. "Only when other people are about," she explained, and put up her face. "You may—kiss me now, Jim, if you want to."
Beth would have been glad even of one of his engulfing embraces, as a sign of reconciliation; but he kissed her gingerly and then sat down, not on the sofa, but on a chair. Next he was surly for a while; then he rose to go.
"I'm tired," he said. "It's been a hard week."
After that lie her sympathy was a reproach. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, caressing him. "If I was cross, forgive me, dear. You do work hard for me." No accusation could have cut deeper; he could scarcely look her in the eyes as he said good-night at the door.
Poor Beth laid her forehead against the dull wood, and listened to his footsteps until they were gone. It worried her that Jim was tired, and that she, not understanding, had been hard on him. She wished her perceptions had been quicker; she resolved to study how to please him. Poor, simple Beth!