She heard the nightmare: she could not look at it.
"My husband bad? He is good, more good than you can guess. What do you mean by speaking so?"
With closed eyes, shutting him out, she spoke, anger and terror in her voice.
Augustine lifted himself and stood with his hands clenched looking at her.
"You say that because you love him. You love him more than anything or anyone in the world."
"I do. I love him more than anyone or anything in the world. How have you dared—in silence—in secret—to nourish these thoughts against the man who has given you all you have."
"He hasn't given me all I have. You are everything in my life and he is nothing. He is selfish. He is sensual. He is stupid. He doesn't know what beauty or goodness is. I hate him," said Augustine.
Her eyes at last opened on him. She grasped her chair and raised herself. Whose hands were these, desecrating her holy of holies. Her son's? Was it her son who spoke these words? An enemy stood before her.
"Then you do not love me. If you hate him you do not love me,"—her anger had blotted out her fear, but she could find no other than these childish words and the tears ran down her face.
"And if you love him you cannot love me," Augustine answered. His self-mastery was gone. It was a fierce, wild anger that stared back at her. His young face was convulsed and livid.