“You don't understand,” muttered Peter, his eyes lowered. “If I'd thought that she'd really minded Stephen's death—”
“Oh! come Peter—that's grossly unfair. Why, she felt it all most horribly. That shows how little you've understood her, how little you've appreciated her. You've always been a gloomy, morbid devil and—”
“All right, Cards—that'll do.”
Cards stood back from the table, his mouth smiling, his eyes hard and cold.
“Oh! no, it won't. You asked for it and now you're going to get it. You've not only been gloomy and morbid all your life, you've been selfish as well—always thinking of yourself and the books you were going to write, and then when they did come they weren't such great shakes. You oughtn't to have married at all—you've never considered Clare at all—your treatment of her—”
Peter stood up, his face white, so that his eyes and the lines of his mouth showed black in the shadow.
“Clear out—I've heard enough.”
“Oh! that's just like you—ask me for my opinion and then lose your temper over it. Really, Peter, you're like a boy of ten—you don't deserve to be treated as a grown-up person.”
Peter's voice shook. “Clear out—clear out or I'll do for you—get out of my house—”
“Certainly.”