She shut it and sat down again. She had developed power, this woman—this—wife of his! He felt it issuing from her as she sat there, in a sort of armour. And almost unconsciously he rose and moved nearer; he wanted to see the expression on her face. Her eyes met his unflinching. Heavens! how clear they were, and what a dark brown against that white skin, and that burnt-amber hair! And how white her shoulders.
Funny sensation this! He ought to hate her.
“You had better tell me,” he said; “it’s to your advantage to be free as well as to mine. That old matter is too old.”
“I have told you.”
“Do you mean to tell me there has been nothing—nobody?”
“Nobody. You must go to your own life.”
Stung by that retort, Soames moved towards the piano and back to the hearth, to and fro, as he had been wont in the old days in their drawing-room when his feelings were too much for him.
“That won’t do,” he said. “You deserted me. In common justice it’s for you....”
He saw her shrug those white shoulders, heard her murmur:
“Yes. Why didn’t you divorce me then? Should I have cared?”