George revolted utterly, and said with cold, harsh displeasure:
"You're simply being morbid. There's no sense in it."
She dropped down into a chair, and the impress of her body dragged the dust-sheet from its gilt arms, exposing them. She put her face in her hands and sobbed.
"You're awfully cruel!" she murmured thickly.
The sobs continued, shaking her body. She was beautifully dressed. Her shoes were adorable, and the semi-transparent hose over her fine ankles. She made a most disturbing, an unbearable, figure of compassion. She needed wisdom, protection, guidance, strength. Every bit of her seemed to appeal for these qualities. But at the same time she dismayed. He moved nearer to her. Yes, she had grandeur. All the costly and valuable objects in the drawing-room she had rejected in favour of the satisfaction of a morbid and terrible whim. Who could have foreseen it? He moved still nearer. He stood over her. He seized her yielding wrists. He lifted her veil. Tears were running down her cheeks from the yellow eyes. She looked at him through her tears.
"You're frightfully cruel," she feebly repeated.
"And what if I am?" he said solemnly. Did she really think him hard, had she always thought him hard—she, the hard one? How strange! Yet no doubt he was hard.
His paramount idea was:
"She had faith in me." It was as if her faith had created