His tone scared her again, but she made a valiant effort to compose herself.
"You say that," she said, "because you are very angry with me. I don't dispute your right to be angry. I know I've made a fool of you. But—but after all"—her voice began to shake uncontrollably; she forced out the words with difficulty—"I've made a much bigger fool of myself. I think you might consider that."
He did consider it with drawn brows.
"Does that improve your case?" he asked at length.
She did not answer him. She was trying hard to read his face, but it told her nothing. With a swift movement she slipped to her feet and stood before him.
"I don't know," she said, speaking fast and passionately, "what you have in your mind. I don't know what you think of me. But I suppose you mean to punish me in some way, to—to give me a lesson that will hurt me all my life. You have me at your mercy, and—and I shall have to bear it, whatever it is. But before—before you make me hate you, let me say this: I am your wife. Hadn't you better remember that before you punish me? I—I shan't hate you so badly so long as I know that you remember that."
She stopped. She was wringing her hands fast together to subdue her agitation.
Piet had risen with her, but she could no longer search his face. She had said that she did not fear him, but in that moment she was more horribly afraid than she had ever been in her life.
She thought that he would never break his silence. Had she angered him even further by those words of hers, she wondered desperately? And if so—oh! if so—Suddenly he spoke, and every pulse in her body leaped and quivered.
"Since when," he said, "have you begun to remember that?"