"He wishes you no ill, be sure of it."
"Oh, you haven't spoken to him as you should! You haven't made him understand you. Let me speak to him for you."
"Cecily."
"Dearest?"
"Suppose he doesn't wish to understand me. Have you never thought, when he has pretended to treat you as a child, that there might be some reason for it? Did it never occur to you that, if he spoke too roughly, it might be because he was afraid of being too gentle?"
"Never! That thought has never approached my mind. You don't speak in earnest?"
Why could he not command his tongue? Why have suggested this to her imagination? He did not wholly mean to say it, even to the last moment; but unwisdom, as so often, overcame him. It was a way of defending himself; he wished to imply that Mallard had a powerful reason for assailing his character. He had been convinced since last night that Mallard was embittered by jealousy, and he half credited the fear lest jealousy might urge to the use of any weapons against him; he was tempted by the satisfaction of putting Cecily on her guard against interested motives. But he should not have troubled her soul with such suspicions. He read on her face how she was pained, and her next word proved his folly.
"If you are right, I can never speak to him as I might have done. It alters everything; it makes everything harder. You are mistaken."
"I may be. Let us hope I am."
"How I wish I had never seen that possibility! I cannot believe it; yet it will prevent me from looking honestly in his face, as I always have done."