In his mind the tale that Ulrich had carried about the meeting with Mario at the hospital, he regarded her narrowly, studying the effect of his words; she was aware of a note of challenge in them; their meaning puzzled her, and she broke the rule of silence she had observed hitherto toward his displays of malevolence.
“Your eyes have been opened?” she said. “May I ask what you have seen?”
“I—have—seen—your—subterfuge!” he responded, leaning forward and striking the table with the tip of his forefinger.
“Subterfuge?”
“Yes; and let me tell you that it is not worth while to continue the masquerade of charity. I am aware of your secret designs.”
“I do not understand you.”
“My belief is that you do,” he returned, speaking fast and vehemently, “though you may make yourself believe that you do not, just as you delude yourself with the idea that you are exceptionally noble to wrong me, your husband, that you may be faithful to another man.”
Hera had risen from the table; it was his first open blow, and she met it standing. A deep flush of colour dyed her temples, but she compressed her lips resolutely, obedient to an instinct which forbade her to quarrel with him, as it would have forbidden her to bandy words with the domestic who appeared just then with the cordial and glasses. She moved to the open window and stood with her back to him. Before her lay the garden with its stately white urns, the rich foliage of the trees, and beyond the wall the moonlit roofs of the workers’ homes, all touched with the mystery of the night, and Hera, looking out upon the picture, endeavoured to think clearly; she tried to pacify her warring emotions, to detach right from wrong, to stand them far apart, and with the eye of justice survey each in its naked proportions. As to what might be the whole meaning of the suspicions he had expressed she gave no thought; she contemplated only the cause of the angry spirit that was roused in him, and of which she saw herself the author; and for this her conscience adjudged her guilty.
“The fault is mine,” she said, at length, turning toward him, sadness in her face. “I have done you a great wrong. By reason of it I am suffering more than you can know. I ought never to have become your wife.”
“Still, it is a wrong that you may redress,” he returned, more gently, as he paused in his measured pacing of the room.