Was it some subtle reflection of her own mood that made him feel so wretched? He was quite as tall as she, he was properly dressed, he carried himself well, he was strong, vigorous, not bad looking. Why then should he feel so small, and so—he had no other word for it—so cheap—as he walked beside her that day? Of course she was beautiful, but she always had been; of course she was proud and a little disdainful, but that also was nothing new. She looked very lovely in her furs; he saw people turn to look at her.... And suddenly, as plainly as if she had spoken the words, he knew that she was ashamed of him.
He stopped short.
“I forgot....” he said. “There’s something I must finish. I’ll go back.”
She made no attempt to dissuade him, she let him go without a word, with a smile which he knew was one of relief. When he turned back, he saw her, still walking down the drive, a distinguished and beautiful creature.
“Snob!” he said to himself. “Vain, fickle, cold-hearted snob! She didn’t want me with her. She doesn’t give a damn where I go, or what I do.”
A terrible grief assailed him, which he imagined was anger.
“I might have known it!” he told himself. “They’re all alike—her sort. Pampered and flattered....”
He struggled desperately back to justice.
“I’m making a mountain out of a molehill.... She simply wanted to be alone.... Nothing very bad in that!... She’s only a kid, after all.... She cared enough for me to marry me.... She does care for me!”