She was silent.
"You know you did not," he went on. "We had been married nearly six years, and you cared no more about me—" He paused to seek a comparison.
"Than you cared for me," she suggested. Then, with a little more energy and color, "I repeat, Horace, I'm not reproaching you. All I want is that you be frank. I asked you to come here to-day that we might talk over our situation honestly. How can we be honest with each other if you begin by pretending that business is your reason for staying away?"
He studied her unreadable, impassive face. In all the years of their married life she had never shown such energy or interest, except about her everlasting painting, which she was always mussing with, shut away from everybody; and never had she been so communicative. But it was too late, far too late, for any sign of personality, however alluringly suggestive of mystery unexplored, to rouse him to interest in her. He was looking at her merely because he wished to discover what she was just now beating toward. "In the fall," he said, "I'm going to New York to live. Of course, that will mean even fewer chances of my coming—here—coming home."
At the word "home," which she had avoided using, a smile—her secret smile—flitted into her face, instantly died away again. He colored.
"I heard you were going to New York," said she. "I saw it in the newspapers."
"I suppose you will not wish to—to leave your father," he resumed cautiously, as if treading dangerous ground.
"Do you wish me to go?"
He did not answer. A prolonged silence which she broke: "You see, Horace, I was right. We mustn't any longer refuse to look our situation squarely in the face."
His heart leaped. When he got her letter with its mysterious, urgent summons, a hope had sprung within him; but he had quickly dismissed it as a mere offspring of his longing for freedom—had there ever been an instance of a woman's releasing a man who was on his way up? But now, he began to hope again.