“You have,” said he.
In the gathering dusk they walked for a while without speech. Something had come home to Hugh; there was a fresh inmate at his secret hearth. Words, mere words, which are falsely supposed to be so ineffectual had brought it there, but the words had been winged with sincerity. Tiny though now the whole scullery-storm appeared, he saw how big was the woman who had made it appear tiny. She moved naturally on that wonderful level, and it was just because she was so big that she had treated this little thing like that. She had brought all the fineness of her nature to bear on it; she had not disproved it with indulgent impatience merely, saying that since these ridiculous people had such ridiculous feelings, she would humour them, rather than cause unpleasantness, but she had turned on to the situation all the kindliness and wisdom that she possessed. Small though the occasion was, it had been to her part of life itself, in which every detail is piece of the design. He waited further instructions about these details.
“And what am I to do?” he asked.
She laughed.
“Humble pie, dear,” she said.
“Yes, I suppose so. Oh, Lord! Why did I lose my temper?”
“For a reason that I love,” said she. “But for other reasons.”
“And must I go—and—and absolutely say so?” he asked.
“Oh, Hughie, it’s no question of ‘must,’ unless you know it is ‘must,’” she said.