They walked on. Alice's heavy skirt beat her ankles above her stout shoes. Mr. Farley's coat-tails flapped. Paper rustled in the gutter.
"You make me sick about being just to Mamma," Alice said almost tenderly. "Whom was she ever just to? What about being just to yourself?"
"We can't ask too much for ourselves in this life," Mr. Farley said soberly.
"Bosh! I wish to Heaven you had left her that time when you wanted to!"
Mr. Farley was shocked. Alice had never spoken to him like this. His arm quivered more than ever. Unable to reply to her for the moment, he was a dung-beetle, rolling his astonishment over and over and making it ready for speech.
"I hardly know how to answer you, Alice. I don't think there ever was a time when I could have taken any joy which came through a sacrifice of other people's happiness. I——" He was confused by his own words. He stopped talking suddenly: Alice could feel that his body was rigid against hers. He could not forgive her.
"Not even when you loved that Mrs. Wilson, eh?" She remembered the name all at once, having heard it long ago.
Mr. Farley stopped, still. He put his hand to his forehead. His other arm fell away from Alice. It took him an instant to answer her. She tapped her foot on the pavement. The wind whizzed in their ears.
"Alice, I—you are referring to things too personal to—I ought to resent it."
"Resent it. I'd be glad to see you resent something." She wanted him to strike fire against her mother's dullness.