She looked at him steadily.
"Yes ... what pleasure?" she repeated.
"I.... I...."
He was frankly at a loss. She had such a queer, upsetting way of putting things. He stood ruffled, resentful, aggrieved, helpless. Not a pleasure could he think of that he had not put before her. His head buzzed with the effort to recall some small sacrifice that he had made in her behalf. She was speaking in a different voice now—softer, more feeling.
"Ah, Morris," she said, "it is all so sad ... so horribly sad! Though I may seem unkind—my heart aches with it. But this has not come suddenly. A long, long time it's been coming. It began ... yes ... that night ... do you remember?—that night over two years ago ... when you came to my room...."—she hesitated, caught her lip hard for a second, went on in a lower voice—"when you came to me—not yourself ... for drink...."
He had put up one hand over his eyes as he leaned with his elbow on the mantelpiece. He said in a choked voice:
"I've been a beast ... sometimes ... I admit."
She hesitated again; then said, whispering:
"That was a pleasure you always put before me."
"Don't!" he said.