He had not thought of what effect he would produce,—his words were his indignant masculine protest against her pallor and weakness, and the pain he had borne in silence for so long. It seemed, however, that he had startled her singularly. She rose from her reclining posture slowly and sat upright, and her hands trembled more than they had done the night before.
"Why," she faltered, "why are you so angry?"
"That," he returned bitterly, "means that I have no right to be angry, of course! Well, I am willing to admit it,—I have no right. I am taking a liberty. I don't even suggest that you are making a mistake,—as Mr. Arbuthnot did; I am rough with you, and say something worse."
"Yes," she admitted, "you are very rough with me." And she sat a few moments, looking down at the floor, her little hands trembling on her lap. But presently she moved again. She pushed one of the cushions up in the sofa-arm and laid her cheek against it, with a half-sigh of weariness relieved and a half-smile.
"Go on!" she said. "After all,—since I have reflected,—I think I don't dislike it. New things always please me,—for a little while,—and this is new. No one ever spoke to me so before. I wonder whether it was because I did not really deserve it or because people were afraid?"
Tredennis stopped in the walk he had begun and wheeled sharply about, fronting her with his disproportionately stern gaze.
"Do you want to know why I do it?" he demanded. "I think—since I have reflected—that it is for the sake of—of the other Bertha."
There was a slight pause.
"Of the other Bertha," she said after it, in a low, unsteady tone. "Of the Bertha who thought it an impossibility that she should be anything but happy."
He had not been prepared for her replies before, but he was startled by what she did now. She left her seat with a sudden, almost impassioned, action; the cushion fell upon the floor. She put her hand upon the mantel, as if to support herself.