"You've been to see those circus people," he said.
"How did you know that?"
"Oh, clairvoyance,—my subtle insight into the workings of your brain!"
"I suppose Hawkins told you. Well, I have been to see them."
Tate began to pick at the bread beside his plate. He often became preoccupied when he knew his wife wanted him to ask questions; this was his favorite way of teasing her.
"It's the strangest ménage I ever saw in my life," Mrs. Tate exclaimed at last, unable to keep back the news any longer. "And it's just as I thought it would be. That poor little creature simply lives in terror of being killed."
Tate rolled his eyes. "'In the midst of life we are in death,'" he said solemnly.
"It's altogether too serious a matter to be made a joke of, Percy. If you could have heard—"
"Now, my dear, you know what I told you. You went to see that woman with the deliberate expectation of finding her a person to be sympathized with, and I can see that you've imagined a lot of nonsense about her. Why in the world don't you let such people alone? You belong in your place and she belongs in hers, and the world is big enough to hold you both without obliging you to come together. You can't understand her feelings any more than she can understand yours. You wonder how you'd feel if you were in her place; you can't realize that if you were in her place you'd be an altogether different person. If you had to go through her performances, of course you'd be scared to death; but you forget she's been brought up to do those things; it's her business, her life. I knew you'd go there and work up a lot of ridiculous sympathy, and badger that woman for nothing!"
At the beginning of this speech Mrs. Tate had sat back in her chair with an expression of patient resignation in her face. When her husband finished she breathed a long sigh. "I hope you've said it all, Percy. You're so tiresome when you make those long harangues. Besides, you've only succeeded in showing that you don't understand the case at all."