Helen gathered the wraps she had thrown on the couch and started to leave the room. When she stood at the door her husband said:
“Are you going upstairs?”
“Yes; I’m tired,” she replied, without looking round. She stood, however, as if expecting him to speak again.
“You—you won’t wait till the returns come in?”
She turned slightly. “I’ll come down again,” she replied, glancing at him for an instant.
Briggs walked toward her. “We’ve been such strangers in the past few weeks,” he said, gently, “that I should think you might take advantage of this chance for a chat.”
Helen dropped her wraps on a chair. “I will stay if you wish.”
“If I wish!” he repeated, with quiet bitterness. “I thought perhaps you’d like to stay. You do everything nowadays with the air of a martyr, Helen.”
“I sha’n’t trouble you much longer, Douglas,” she said, lowering her eyes.
“Then there is no way of our coming to an understanding?”