"Yes," admitted Florence, meeting his gaze. "I think that's true. Having gone so far, hadn't you better proceed?"
"I'm trying to look at it from your standpoint; I've never been sorry on my own account."
Florence laughed in a strained fashion.
"That's a little difficult to believe. Still, one must do you the justice to own that you have, at least, never mentioned your regrets."
"I don't think I've often mentioned my expectations either. That's one reason I'm speaking now. You seem—approachable—to-night."
"I suppose they were not fulfilled?"
"If they were not, it was my own fault. I took you out of the environment you were suited to and content with."
"I wasn't," Florence declared sharply. "Things were horribly unpleasant to me then. I was struggling desperately to earn a living, and had to put up with a good deal from most disagreeable people."
Again a faint, grim smile crept into her husband's eyes.
"After all, perfect candor is a little painful now and then; but let me go on. At least, I brought you into an environment with which you were not content. The kind of life I led was irksome to you; you could not help me in it; even to hear me talk of what I did each day was burdensome to you. I couldn't speak of my plans for the future, or the difficulties that must be met and faced continually. For a while I felt it badly."