"The doctor and I agreed to give you a chance—for her sake. Without realizing what she has done, she's made a dreadful mess of it. A child—as innocent as a child! Nothing about life; bemused by the fairy stories you writers call novels! I don't know what you have done; I don't care. But you must tell her."
"I can't! I can't—not now!"
"Bat!—can't you see that she's the kind who would understand and forgive? She loves you."
The walls appeared to rock; bulging shadows reached out; the candle flames became mocking eyes; and the blood drummed thunderously in Spurlock's ears. The door to the apocalypse had opened!
"Loves me? . . . Ruth?"
"Why the devil not? Why do you suppose she married you if she didn't love you? While you read I watched her face. It was in her eyes—the big thing that comes but once. But you! Why the devil did you marry her? That's the thing that confounds me."
"God help me, what a muddle!" The cigar crumbled in Spurlock's hand.
"All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. It is a matter of degree. Lord, I am sixty. For thirty years I have lived alone; but once upon a time I lived among men. I know life. I sit back now, letting life slip by and musing upon it; and I find my loneliness sweet. I have had my day; and there were women in it. So, when I tell you she loves you, I know. Supposing they find you and take you away?—and she unprepared? Have you thought of that? Why did you marry her?"
"God alone knows!"
"And you don't love her! What kind of a woman do you want, anyhow?"—with rising anger. He saw the tragedy on the boy's face; but he was merciless. "Are you a poltroon, after all?"