“You are unreasonable,” Monica answered sharply. “Certainly I shall go and see her.”
“I forbid you to do so! If you go, it will be in defiance of my wish.”
“Then I am obliged to defy your wish. I shall certainly go.”
His face was frightfully distorted. Had they been in a lonely spot, Monica would have felt afraid of him. She moved hurriedly away in the direction of their lodgings, and for a few paces he followed; then he checked himself, turned round about, took an opposite way.
With strides of rage he went along by the quay, past the hotels and the smaller houses that follow, on to St. Sampson. The wind, again preparing for a tempestuous night, beat and shook and at moments all but stopped him; he set his teeth like a madman, and raged on. Past the granite quarries at Bordeaux Harbour, then towards the wild north extremity of the island, the sandy waste of L’Ancresse. When darkness began to fall, no human being was in his range of sight. He stood on one spot for nearly a quarter of an hour, watching, or appearing to watch, the black, low-flying scud.
Their time for dining was seven. Shortly before this Widdowson entered the house and went to the sitting-room; Monica was not there. He found her in the bed-chamber, before the looking-glass. At the sight of his reflected face she turned instantly.
“Monica!” He put his hands on her shoulders, whispering hoarsely, “Monica! don’t you love me?”
She looked away, not replying.
“Monica!”
And of a sudden he fell on his knees before her, clasped her about the waist, burst into choking sobs.