‘No—ten minutes to at least. It doesn’t matter, but if you had been punctual you wouldn’t have had a fright.’
Nancy had dropped into a chair, white and shaking. Tarrant’s voice, abruptly reproachful, affected her scarcely less than the preceding shock. In the struggle to recover herself she sobbed and choked, and at length burst into tears. Tarrant spoke impatiently.
‘What’s the matter? Surely you are not so childish’—
She stood up, and went into the bedroom, where she remained for several minutes, returning at length without her jacket, but with her hat still on.
‘I couldn’t help it; and you shouldn’t speak to me in that way. I have felt ill all the morning.’
Looking at her, the young man said to himself, that love was one thing, wedded life another. He could make allowance for Nancy’s weakness—but it was beyond his power to summon the old warmth and tenderness. If henceforth he loved her, it must be with husband’s love—a phrase which signified to him something as distinct as possible from the ardour he had known; a moral attachment instead of a passionate desire.
And there was another reason for his intolerant mood.
‘You hadn’t spoken to any one before you got my note?’
‘No.—Why are you treating me like this? Are you ashamed that your friend saw me?’
‘Ashamed? not at all.’