“I don’t think I’d—like to—go on here, without you,” she said in a trembling voice. “I’d be—lonely.”
“Nonsense! Not after a day or so. You’d enjoy the freedom, too. I’ve got my eye on a little house that will suit me very well. And really, Marian, I’d very much prefer you and the children keeping on here in the same way. Of course, I should make you the same housekeeping allowance, and so on.”
“I would like a little freedom, too,” she said. “I—can’t stop here—without you, Andrew.”
“Well, of course,” he answered, rather disconcerted, “I’ve no right to dictate to you.”
“You can stay here,” she said, “with the children, and I’ll go and stop with mother for a few days, where I can think it over quietly. Then I’ll send for the babies. I—you see, I want to—get used to this. It’s—rather sudden.”
It was no longer possible to conceal the fact that she was weeping. Her husband was really distressed. He patted her lovely, shining hair with a careless hand, while he scowled anxiously before him.
“My dear girl! Please! This isn’t a tragedy, by any means. Simply let’s be two sensible, modern people who refuse to be bound by certain conventions. Do be your own sensible self, won’t you?”
“I—will—try!” she sobbed. “Only—you’ll have to give me—a little time.”
He looked at the clock; it was a little after midnight.
“Perhaps I’d better leave you alone,” he said. “I’ll be going now.”