"Or before you go back home—that she is yours as much as mine and—"
"Generous," he said, dryly.
She could have beaten her head with a sense of futility.
"You've been a bad woman with a streak of devil in you. Tried to ruin my life, but I didn't let you. No, siree! I've worked things out. I've gotten on. I'm big in my way—in my business—in my home."
"Albert, I love to hear you say that!"
"You! You don't love anything or anybody outside yourself."
"Why? Because I took my chance to save myself from everything I—I hated! Not you—not they—but everything it stands for out there. Does self-preservation imply only selfishness?"
"Whatever it implies," he answered, stung to dark red by his effort for quick retort, "you're selfish—rotten selfish. But you haven't kept me down. I've gotten up these eighteen years—and you—you—Bah!"
"You've been happy, Albert? Tell me you have."
"Happy! I'm not a hog for happiness. You to inquire about my happiness! Lots you care! I've had my share of contentment. Contented as a man can be in a community where he has kept up a farce for seventeen years that his wife is off with his consent studying opera. But I've kept my name—kept it in spite of you. I don't know what's been what with you. Guess if the truth is known, I'm afraid to think what's what!"