The woman shook her head wearily.
"You refuse to understand anything," she responded. "He gave it to me to protect you from himself."
He stood looking at her, revolving that assertion quickly in his mind, feeling for the first time that his command over the situation was good only so long as they were alone. Before his suddenly rising fear of Bruce Bayard his bitterness retreated.
"Well, we'll quit this place," he said with a swagger. "We'll clear out, you and I.... I've had enough of this damned treachery; trying to steal you, my wife. I might have known. I told him his foot would slip!"
Ann scarcely heard. She was possessed by a queer lethargy. She wanted to rest, to be quiet, to be left alone, yet she knew that much remained to be endured. She had never rebelled before; she had always compromised and she felt that after her great demonstration of self-sufficiency nothing could matter a great deal. Ned had said that they would quit this place. She had no idea of resisting, of even arguing. It was easier to go, to delay a further break, for their journey would not be far, she felt, nor would she be with her husband long. Bayard would come somehow; he had come when she was in danger before, and now that which menaced her was of much less consequence. Why fear?
She stooped to pick up a book that had been thrown to the floor when the table overturned.
"Leave that alone!" he ordered.
She straightened mechanically, the listlessness that was upon her making it far easier to obey than to summon the show of strength necessary to resist.
"We'll quit this place," Ned repeated again. "And you'll go with me ..."
He turned to face the doorway. The bent reading lamp lay at his feet, shade and chimney wrecked, oil gurgling from it. He kicked the thing viciously, sending it crashing against the wall.