“She is sent by the Devil to tempt us,” said Naomi in a strangely hysterical voice. “She’s an evil woman ... I’ve prayed and God has answered me.” It was difficult to know whether she was stubborn because of faith or because she hated Lady Millicent Wimbrooke.
When Philip didn’t answer her, she turned to Swanson. “You’ll stay, won’t you?”
“If God means us to stay,” he answered weakly. “I don’t know.”
A kind of scorn suddenly colored her voice. “And you, Philip ... will you stay or will you go off with your friend?”
“What friend?” asked Philip.
“Her,” said Naomi, who could not bring herself to say “Lady Millicent.”
“Friend?” he echoed. “Why friend?”
“Oh, you know why. You seem to agree with her. You never said a word in our defense.”
This was a new Naomi who stood looking at him, a woman excited and hysterical, and desperate, whom he did not recognize. This new Naomi was the martyr prepared to die for a Heavenly crown, moved by some inward fire that was terrifying and quite beyond control and reason. Between them, husband and wife, the chasm had opened again. He saw her suddenly as he had seen her when she was indifferent to the danger of his staying at Megambo—a woman to whom he was less than nothing, who would sacrifice him for the mad faith he no longer shared.
He looked away because he suddenly found her face hard and repulsive, saying, “You’re crazy, Naomi. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”