“I beg your pardon, Stacey,” she murmured unsteadily.
“What is it?” he asked gently.
“Nothing! I just—can’t go on with it.”
“Tell me.”
She was silent for a moment. “It was only because you were kind, Stacey, and seemed to feel interest in me.”
She did not mean this as a reproof, he knew, but he was aware that it was a damning one. Her interest in him had always been immense and generous; what interest had he ever shown in her? He had taken her for granted.
“Tell me,” he repeated.
“But—there are so many things one doesn’t say—one isn’t allowed. If I told the truth I should seem shameful, violating decency.” Her eyes were chilly now and questioning.
He shook his head.
“Well, then,” she said suddenly, in a hard voice, “it’s my husband—or partly. Perhaps he finds me as faulty as I find him, but, oh, he’s finely greedy, finely futile, finely avaricious, finely sterile in every human sentiment! I could bear all those things—perhaps—but for his fineness in all of them. I can’t live with him any longer. I loathe him. What have I done with my life, Stacey? I look down on nothing but ruins. My only child does not love me, nor I her. What good to bear a child? What is such a life for? I’ve been tolerant too long. What’s it all about—life?”