The phrase irritated him—reminded him of a previous occasion when she had used it ... a dialogue on their wedding night.... If Deb were altogether to be trusted ... he was not the man to ask questions when once he trusted his wife. But Deb—Deb had not been like other girls. So Deb was not like other wives. And now, the minute he left her—
Stale type of suspicious husband, Samson glowered, pulled his moustache, meditated, decided to pass over the incident, changed his mind—and broke out:
“Look here, Deborah—I’m sick of all this shifting about. It all goes back further than last night. I’m going to get to the bottom of the matter. You’ve got to give me a plain answer to a plain question. Why did you tell me a year before I married you, that you weren’t a good girl?”
Beat back through all that undergrowth? back and back—tangled motive, and reaction, and example, the example of Jenny Carew, once—but that was all over ... a word read at a critical moment ... moods, and the love of whirlwind disguises ... mischief—boredom.... Yes, yes, further back still ... influence, of course—the influence of Cliffe Kennedy, of Gillian.... Well, but that was recent—and behind that? The undergrowth thicker, thickening ... her innate recoil from stinginess; the girl who will not give.... To and fro her mind rushed and stumbled with a snapping of twigs in the undergrowth ... trying, obediently trying, to find out why had she told that silly senseless lie ... the Phillips family—fear of being sucked into respectability—fear of the fate of the wanton—fear of wasting, of not being wanted.... Aunt Stella.... And the scene with Ferdie.... If they did not believe her good, she would at least be bad.... That look in Blair’s eyes when he thought—no, that was afterwards.... Women, everywhere women ... and chastity which was endless vigil.... Richard crying with his head in her lap.... So she married Samson, yes, and meant to be decent to him—if she could not be bad, she would as least be good—good—good.... So she married Samson, now confronting her in the attitude of fanatic orthodoxy, waiting to “get to the bottom of it”—of what? Of all her life, and the lives stretching behind her, and the Cosmos that had shaped her—the entire matted web of cause and effect? All this? How could she hope to drag his understanding in her wake? His understanding that was such a thoroughly awkward shape—unpliable, granite-hewn, rigid corners and lumps, bits of lichen in all the crannies.... Why, she could not even push through the labyrinth herself, with all her squirrel facility....
“Give me plain answer—”
Plain answer? And suddenly Deb realised the impossibility of even trying; she was too weary; weary of muddle, weary of herself. There was no plain answer to anything—in her language; no answer that was not plain—in Samson’s. So again she just said, replying to his question: “I—don’t—know.”
“But you must know.”
“I mean—you wouldn’t understand, even if I told you.”
“There ought not to be anything to tell. A good wife has nothing to tell her husband....”
Deb laughed ironically—“Well, and I’ve nothing to tell you, so it’s all right.”