"Don't go," he said. "We may as well have this out."
Daphne stood irresolute. Then curiosity got the better of virtuous indignation, and she sat down again.
"Will you kindly tell me," she said, "what you mean by talking in that way?"
Carthew's honest eyes lingered on her face in a manner which she could not fathom. Did the man love her, or was he pitying her, or was he merely indulging in sarcastic reflections at her expense? Whatever his motives, he had a knack of compelling attention.
Presently he began to speak.
"I wonder," he said, as if talking to himself, "why men and women are made as they are? Why does A love B, while B worships C, who cares for no one in the world but himself? And why does D insist on confusing things still further by not quite knowing what he—she—wants? I wonder! They say there is enough money spent in charity every year to supply the needs of every poor person living, but so much is misapplied that many have to go without. I think it is the same with human affection. There is so much true love going about in this world—enough to keep all of us well-nourished and contented. But what a lot of it goes to waste! There is so much overlapping! Why, I wonder? It is a difficult business, Life, Daphne."
He had never called her Daphne before, but neither of them seemed to notice the familiarity.
"We're a contrary crew, we mortals," he continued presently. "Here we are, you and I, sitting in the moonshine inaugurating a flirtation, though neither of us cares a snap for the other—in that way. Why, I wonder? I think it is partly due to pride—wounded pride. You are angry with your husband——"
Daphne, who was methodically picking her cigarette to pieces, looked up indignantly.
"I'm not!" she said hotly.