And old Mrs. Clinker smiled when she got this letter.
But by the end of the afternoon John Derringham's face wore no smiles; a blank despair had settled upon him.
They drove along the Arno and into the Gardens.
It was warm and beautiful, but, so forceful is a hostile atmosphere created between two people, they both found it impossible to make conversation.
Mrs. Cricklander was burning with rage and a sense of impotency. She felt her words and all her arts of pleasing were being nullified, and that she was up against an odious situation in which her strongest weapons were powerless. It made her nervous and very cross. She particularly resented not being able to ascertain the cause of the change in him, and felt personally aggrieved at his still being a wretched wreck hobbling with a stick. He ought to have got quite well by now—it was perfectly ridiculous. What if, after all, he would not be worth while? But the indomitable part of her character made her tenacious. She felt it was a different matter, throwing away what she had won, to having to relinquish something that she knew she had never really gained. She would make one more determined effort, and then, if he would not give her love, he should be made to feel his bondage, she would extort from him to the last ounce, her pound of flesh.
"John, darling," she said, slipping her hand into his, under the rug as they drove, "this beautiful place makes me feel so romantic. I wish you would make love to me. You sit there looking like Dante with a beard, as cold as ice."
"I am very sorry," he answered, startled from a reverie. "I know I am a failure in such sort of ways. What do you want me to say?"
This was not promising, and her annoyance increased.
"I want you to tell me you love me—over and over again," she whispered, controlling her voice.
"Women always ask these questions," he said to gain time. "They never take anything for granted as men do."