Her hand was resting on the table, and suddenly he reached to her and laid his own hand on hers. She did not withdraw, but the stiffening of her body was more than withdrawal. He drew his hand away again.
"We are reasonable creatures and must question our difficulties," said he gently, "we must even help each other to resolve them."
"These difficulties are not of my making."
"They are, and you are lying to me shamelessly."
Again between these people a silence fell which was profound but not quiet. That soundlessness was tingling with sound; there were screams latent in it; it was atrocious and terrifying. The man's hand was pressed against his forehead and his eyes were closed, but what he was looking at was known only to himself in the silence of his being. The woman sat upright an arm's-length from him, and although her eyes were wide and calm, she also was regarding that which was free within herself, and very visible to her.
"There are things I cannot do," said the man, emerging as with an effort from subterranean caves and secret prospects. He continued speaking, calmly but tonelessly:
"I have striven to make a rule of life for myself and to follow it, but I have not sought to impose my laws on any one else—not on you, certainly. Still there are elementary duties which we owe to one another and which cannot be renounced by either of us. There is a personal, I might say, a domestic loyalty expected by each of us...."
"I expect nothing," said she.
"I exact nothing," said the man, "but I expect that—I expect it as I expect air for my lungs and stability under my feet. You must not withdraw that from me. You are not the individual you think; you are a member of society, and you live by it; you are a member of my household, and you live by it."
She turned her face to him but not her eyes.