Logan’s fury snapped.
“For God’s sake! For God’s sake!” he said. “What has come over us? Oh, God help us! What are we doing? What are we coming to? Nell! Nell! I didn’t know what I was saying!”
He went down on his knees beside her, and Mendel, who had been numbed but inwardly elated by the storm, could not endure the craven surrender, the cowardly reconciliation, and he left them.
Out in the street he stood tottering on the curb, and spat into the gutter, with extreme precision, between the bars of a grating.
At Brighton, whither they went next day, Logan explained himself.
“It is extraordinary how near love is to hate, and how rotten love becomes if hate is suppressed—stale and tasteless and vapid.”
“Are you talking about yourself and Oliver?” asked Mendel.
“Yes.”
“Then please don’t. I don’t mind what happens between you and her so long as it doesn’t happen in front of me.”
“I’m sorry,” said Logan; “but it can’t always be prevented. I don’t see the use of pretence.”