"It's no use, Morris...." she said very low. "We must talk frankly.... I hate it as much as you do.... Oh, I hate it.... I loathe it!" she ended with an irrepressible cry from her sick heart.
He turned at that, his head down.
"Why must we?" he said thickly.
"Because it's got to be clear ... it's got to be straight between us," she returned passionately. Her breast was heaving. She put up her arm across it as though to hold it quiet by force. She had felt so calm, had been so sure of her calmness. Now her heart was bounding as though it would leap from her body. He turned again to the window, and she sat silent until something of calmness had come back to her.
"Don't stand so far away," she then said hurriedly, and half under her breath. "Come nearer. I ... I am not ... angry. I don't want to speak loud.... Some one might hear."
He came nearer. He could not find any words. He had no thoughts which words would have expressed. But Sophy was regaining control of herself. Some of the oft-rehearsed sentences were coming back to her. Now they were more or less in order. She uttered one, speaking clearly, in a rather expressionless voice.
"Morris...." she said, "how much do you care for Belinda?"
He stared gloomily at the carpet.
"I rather think I hate her," he said.
Scorn choked Sophy. She could not speak again, either, for a moment. Then she said: