“When you will.” Maurice’s voice was quieter. The unexpected prospect of relief mollified him. “It’s a pity, for Felicia will suffer, but she herself must see that it doesn’t do. You have made life too uncomfortable for both of us. And after this! Well, you’ve made things impossible. For a time you had better realize what your daughter is away from her, realize how little she needs any one’s protection. It’s settled then; you go, on my return.”
Mr. Merrick bowed. He was aghast, outraged, more than all, wounded. The hurt child whimpered and then fairly howled within him, while, in silence, he smiled ironically. They reached their destination, Maurice in a growing rage that for once obliterated his fears. It was like strong wine that uplifted, made him almost glad.
He left his father-in-law and made his way through the crowded rooms in search of Felicia. He needed to look into her limpid eyes after this hissing of serpents. But instead of Felicia he found Angela.
For the distasteful monotony of these assemblies Angela had always an air of patient disdain; and to-night, under a high wreath of white flowers, her face more than ever wore its mask of languid martyrdom. She was in white, perfumed like a lily.
Maurice felt a keener gladness on seeing her. His wrath, running new currents of vigour through him, carried him past any hesitation. At last he would have it out with Angela.
“I want to speak to you,” he said. “Is there any place where one can get out of this crowd?”
Angela saw in a flash that a crisis had arrived; and in another that she had been working towards such a crisis, living for it, since Maurice had cast her off. For a moment, beneath the rigour of his eyes—to see Maurice unflinching was a new experience—her spirit quailed, then soared, exulting in the thought of final contest. Since he wished it—yes, they would speak openly. He should at last hear all—her hate, her love, her supplication. She was an intimate in the house where Maurice and Felicia were formal guests; her quick mind seized all possibilities. “Yes,” she said, “there is a little room—a little boudoir. No one ever goes there on nights like these.” Her self-mastery was all with her as she moved beside him through the crowd. She was able, over the tumult of hope and fear, to speak calmly, to smile at friends her weary, fragile smile.
“Aren’t these scenes flimsy and sad?” she said. “How much happiness, how much reality do they express, do you think?”
Maurice forced himself to reply. “They express a lot of greediness and falseness; those are real enough.”
“That is true, Maurice,” she said gently; “so true that I sometimes think I would rather be a washerwoman bending in honest work over my tubs; one would be nearer the realities one cares for.”