“I do not!” he burst out. He was angry now.
But she nodded her head. “You do,” she repeated. “Ah, dear Stacey, think! You’re hard and bitter—or you think you are—really you’re only hurt”—(he winced)—“but the one impulse you have is to look at things squarely, and to be one who can look at them so. Will you, then, do—do—crooked things, have a secret back-stairs liaison, hide behind—corners, meet Marian in the dark, with whispers? Oh, you mustn’t!”
The thrust went deep. He walked up and down the room restlessly, his heart full of anger and pain. Finally he turned on her.
“I’ll do what I please!” he cried. “Who are you to preach to me like this? What are you in my life? Nothing!”
But at this she started, then buried her head in her hands and wept. And when he saw that he had hurt her, as he had intended, he was shocked.
However, she lifted her head, unashamed, almost at once. “Forgive me!” she said simply. “Who am I? Who are we? We—Phil and I—love you. That’s the only power we have over you.”
He gazed at her for a moment, helplessly and remorsefully. “I’ll do as you say,” he said dully. But, with his surrender, anger rushed upon him again furiously. “Only,” he added, trembling with rage, “I’ll tell you that you and Phil are impossible! You’re too good! Abominably good! It’s sickening! Leave me alone now, both of you!”
He snatched up his hat and coat and hurried out of the house.
CHAPTER XV
Stacey plunged blindly down the hill, in an insane fury of rage and thwarted passion. His mind was a hot swirling confusion which he made no attempt to clarify. But in the welter two things remained firm—his will to go to Marian’s house to-night, his will not to go. These were two equal warring forces. Their conflict churned up anger—anger with Catherine, anger with himself for having inexplicably yielded to Catherine.