Anthony himself threw open the door and Flora took care to shut it carefully behind herself and her father. “See,” she began but desisted because it was clear that he would look at none of the contrivances for his comfort. She herself had hardly seen them before. He was looking only at the new carpet and she waited till he should raise his eyes.
He didn’t do that but spoke in his usual voice. “So this is your husband, that . . . And I locked up!”
“Papa, what’s the good of harping on that,” she remonstrated no louder. “He is kind.”
“And you went and . . . married him so that he should be kind to me. Is that it? How did you know that I wanted anybody to be kind to me?”
“How strange you are!” she said thoughtfully.
“It’s hard for a man who has gone through what I have gone through to feel like other people. Has that occurred to you? . . . ” He looked up at last . . . “Mrs. Anthony, I can’t bear the sight of the fellow.” She met his eyes without flinching and he added, “You want to go to him now.” His mild automatic manner seemed the effect of tremendous self-restraint—and yet she remembered him always like that. She felt cold all over.
“Why, of course, I must go to him,” she said with a slight start.
He gnashed his teeth at her and she went out.
Anthony had not moved from the spot. One of his hands was resting on the table. She went up to him, stopped, then deliberately moved still closer. “Thank you, Roderick.”
“You needn’t thank me,” he murmured. “It’s I who . . . ”