“You needn’t,” said Laura without expression. “The part’s filled.”
“Oh, well! there’ll be another soon,” said Justin comfortably. “I’m sorry. I really am sorry. But what with this arriving—isn’t it a beauty? You haven’t half looked at it, Laura!—and getting things straight again—I simply hadn’t time.”
“You hadn’t time!”
The contempt in her voice startled them both—stung like a whip; but she hurt herself more than she hurt him. She had not realized that it was possible to feel like that to Justin. She was frightened at herself.
But Justin was annoyed. He did not feel guilty, he felt injured. He was quite sure he hadn’t had time.
“Oh, shut up, Laura!” he adjured her, and then, with gathering indignation—“Look here, you know—shut up!” and so retired into the silence that awaits apologies.
But something was wrong with Laura that day. She too was silent, with a difference in the quality of her silence that disturbed him. Where he was dignified, she was ominous. Glancing across at her he found her studying him and his occupation with an impersonal, appraising air that altered her whole face: and she had grown white, so white that he noticed it—that is to say, he thought to himself that she was looking plain that morning. But when she did speak she was outrageous—
“Justin! do you know—I think you’re almost selfish.”
That was the way, you see, that she talked to him when he was up to his eyes in work!
“Oh?” said Justin, bearing with her. And then, in sudden heat—“Because I forgot to write a letter!”