He found that he did not know what to say next. That tolerant acquiescence of hers in what he had meant to sting intolerably . . . it was as though he had put all his force into a blow that would stun, and somehow missing his aim, encountering no resistance, was toppling forward with the impetus of his own effort. He recovered himself and looked at her, choking, "You don't mean . . ." he began challenging her incredulously, and could go no further.
For she nodded, her eyes on his with that singular expression in them which he did not understand, and which he intensely resented.
He was so angry that for a moment he could not speak. He was aware of nothing but anger. "It's impotence and weakness on your part, that's all it is!" he cast out at her, hating her savagely as he spoke, "no matter what fine words you've decided to call it to cloak your own feebleness. It's the littleness of the vital spark in you. Or it's cowardly inertia, turning from the real fulfilment that calls for you, back to chips and straw because you are used to them. It's being a small, poor, weak, cowed creature, traditional-minded, instead of the splendid, brave, living woman I thought I loved. I am glad to leave you behind, to have no more of you in my life. I have no use for thin-blooded cowards."
She made no answer at all, not a word. His flaming eyes fell away from her face. He turned from her abruptly and walked rapidly away, not looking back.
Then he found he had ceased to advance rapidly, had stopped and was standing still, wrung in so dreadful a pain that his hand was at his side as though he had been stabbed. With no thought, with no awareness of what he was doing, he ran back to her, his hands outstretched, suffering so that he must have help. He did not mean to speak, did not know what he was to say . . . he cried out to her, "Marise, Marise . . . I love you! What can I do?"
The cry was desperate, involuntary, forcing its way out from unfathomed depths of feeling below all his anger and resentment, and tearing him to pieces as it came. It was as though he had taken his heart out and flung it at her feet.
Her face changed instantly and was quiveringly alight with a pale and guilty agitation. "No . . . oh no, Vincent! I thought you only . . . I had thought you could not really . . . Vincent, forgive me! Forgive me!" She took one of his hands in both hers . . . the last unforgotten touch he was ever to have of her. . . .
It came to him through those words which he did not understand that she was pitying him; and stung to the quick, he drew back from her, frowning, with an angry toss of his head.
Instantly she drew back also, as though she had misinterpreted something.