Cecil went over to her and wheeled her about sharply. There was no question about his pallor now; his very lips were white. “That was the first time you ever shrank from me,” he said. “What does it mean?”
“I mean that I will go to California.”
“That’s not the point.”
“I simply can’t explain, but I’ll try to in my letters. I promise that if you don’t understand me now you shall before I get back.”
“I have no time to read a woman’s novels about herself. I once read several volumes of women’s ‘letters.’ There never yet was a woman who could write about herself unself-consciously; she is always addressing an imaginary audience. Say what you’ve got to say now, and have done with it. If I’ve failed in anything I love you well enough to do all I can—you know that.”
“You told me when you proposed to me that you would hate understanding a woman’s complexities, that she had no right to have any, that a woman must become a mere adjunct of her husband.”
“I don’t remember ever having said anything of the sort. But if I did—I very dimly realised at that time all that you would become to me. Now I would do anything in my power to keep you as you have been these three years.”
Lee almost relented; but her conscience was in a state of abnormal activity. It had reminded her that she had talked her husband over with another man, and that the act was both disloyal and in bad taste. She would have given all she possessed to return her confidences where they belonged, much as she had needed the relief. She hated Randolph Montgomery and she hated herself. So she stamped her foot at Cecil.
“I wish you would let me alone,” she exclaimed. “If I feel like it later I’ll explain, but I won’t say another word to-night.”
There was really nothing for Cecil to do but to go out and bang the door, so he went out and banged it.