"You knew it was coming then?" He scarcely recognised his own voice; he spoke as he supposed a judge might speak to a proven criminal.
Louise shrugged her shoulders. "No. Yes.—That is, as far as it's possible to know such a thing."
Through the crude glass window, the sun cast a medley of lines and lights on her hands, and on the checkered table-cloth. There were two rough benches, and a square table; the coffeecups stood on a metal tray; the lid of the pot was odd, did not match the set: all these inanimate things, which, a moment ago, Maurice had seen without seeing them, now stood out before his eyes, as if each of them had acquired an independent life, and no longer fitted into its background.
"Let us go home," he said, and rose.
"Go home? But we have only just come!" cried Louise, with what seemed to him pretended surprise. "Why do you want to go home? It is so quiet here: I can talk to you. For I need your advice, Maurice. You must help me once again."
"I help you?—in this? No, thank you. All I can do, it seems, is to wish you joy." He remained standing, with his hand on the back of the bench.
But at the cold amazement of her eyes, he took his seat again. "It is a matter for yourself—only you can decide. It's none of my business." He moved the empty cups about on the cloth.
"But why are you angry?"
"Haven't I good reason to be? To see you—you!—accepting an impertinence of this kind so quietly. For it IS an impertinence, Louise, that a man you hardly know should write to you in this cocksure way and ask you to marry him. Impertinent and absurd!"
"You have a way of finding most things I want to do absurd," she answered. "In this case, though, you're mistaken. The tone of the letter is all it should be. And, besides, I know Mr. Van Houst very well."