"I wish to hear whatever you wish to say," replied she. "But—is it necessary to say anything?"
He leaned back, lighted a cigarette, smoked in silence. She again studied him. That changed expression—the tense, concentrated strain gone—a sense of life, of attractive possibilities in it other than chemistry, gave him a humanness, a reality he had not had for her even in their first months of married life. "Perhaps you're right," said he, rousing himself. "Why mull over the past? And our futures lie in different directions." He noted the queer, intent look in her eyes. "What's the matter? You seem puzzled."
"Nothing. I— Nothing."
"It's the change in me—in my point of view—isn't it?"
"Your—your mind certainly seems to have changed."
"Dropped its prejudices, rather," was his reply. "There's a difference. A man's mind's himself. His prejudices are more or less external—can be sloughed off, like clothes."
That was it, she now saw. He had got rid of those prejudices. The dead hand of his grandfather was no longer heavy upon him. This man, seated there before her in the vividness of youth, was the real Richard Vaughan.
"You used to tell me the truth about myself," he went on reflectively. "I had never seriously thought about women—about the relations of men and women. I simply accepted my grandfather as gospel on those subjects. My crisis forced me to do some thinking—and I believe you'll do me the justice of admitting I never would be stupid enough to act in a crisis without trying to use the best mind I had. Well—when I got away—and thought—I saw that the whole business was my fault."
"No," protested she. "There was where I wronged you. I blamed you—myself a little—but you most. That was unjust. But let's not talk about it. The past is—the past. I wish to drop all of it except its lessons. They'll be useful in the future."
"One thing more," he said. "I want to say I'm glad of what has happened."