Maurice had expected—yes, what had he expected?—anger, perhaps, or denial, or, it might be, vituperation; only not the almost impartial composure with which she listened to him. For he had not spared her a word.
"Is that all you've got to say?" he cried, suffocated with doubt. "Then you ... you admit it?"
"Admit it! Maurice! Are you crazy?—to wake me up for this! It happened YEARS ago!"
His recoil of disgust was too marked to be ignored. Louise half sat up in bed again, supporting herself on one hand. Her nightgown was not buttoned; he saw to the waist a strip of the white skin beneath, saw, too, how a long black strand of her hair fell in and lay on it.
"You won't tell me you didn't know from the first there had been ... something between Heinz and me?" she cried, roused to defend herself.—"And look here, Maurice, as he told you that, it's my turn now. I'll tell you why!" And sitting still more upright, she gave a reason which made him grasp the knob of the bed-post so fiercely that it came away in his hand. He threw it into a corner.
"Louise! ... you! to take such words on your tongue! Is there no shame left in you?" His throat was dry and narrow.
"Shame! You only mean the need for concealment. Before you had got me, there was no talk of shame."
"Do you know what you're saying?"
"Oh, that's your eternal cry!" and, suddenly spurred to anger, she rose again. "I know—yes, I know! Do you think I'm a fool? Why must you alone be so innocent! Why should you alone not know that I was only jealous of a single person, and that was Krafft?"
Maurice turned away. In the comparative darkness behind the screen, he sat down on the sofa, put his arms on the table, and his head on his arms. He was exhausted, and found he must have slept as he sat; for when he lifted his head again, the hands of the clock had moved forward by several hours.