"Oh, Justin, I apologize; but Miss Carrie is dying: they do not think she will last through the night. She sent for me; I had to go. Surely you would not have me refuse her?"
He stood by the window, like a thwarted, angry boy.
Tired as she was, Anstice rose from her seat. Putting her hand on his shoulder, a thing she had never done before, she said in her tenderest tone:
"Forgive me. Don't be angry. But I couldn't have refused a dying woman's call."
"You are not a parson, and you are not called to do a parson's work. Your place is at home with me and my children."
She dropped her hand, and then he wheeled round swiftly upon her.
"My claims come first," he said sharply.
"Your children's claims do," said Anstice very quietly, "but I do not acknowledge that yours do. You mustn't be a tyrant, Justin. Women are not chattels. And I must have my own independent judgment about things. I could not live anywhere stifling my ears to the cries for help from anyone, rich or poor. Imagine yourself struck down suddenly upon a sick-bed, knowing that you will never get up again alive, that you're on the brink of eternity, going into an unknown life with no hope in your heart. Wouldn't you like somebody to help you? To try to throw a ray of light across your darkness?"
Justin stood looking at her with sombre eyes. Then he turned round again and looked out of the window.
"I'm a fool to want you," he muttered.