Matthew’s face grew really stern. He held her, but without a touch of emotion. Then, when her anger seemed to have spent itself, he drew her to the big chair, down on his knees, patting her hand. After a little she looked up at him as if she sought for a trace of the thing she wanted. His glance met hers gravely.
“When we agreed to be married, do you remember what we talked about and decided? Haven’t I given you everything I promised?”
That softened him. “And you’ve given me more than I ever hoped for—youth and happiness and comfort and the sight of you. Aren’t we happy enough, Fliss, without mixing ourselves up in a hunt after emotions that probably can’t naturally develop in us?”
“Can’t they—can’t I be more; couldn’t I learn?”
He put his hand over her mouth. “Don’t spoil your own quality, Fliss. And remember that I’m getting older and the capacity for certain kinds of emotion is passing me by.”
“But you feel it for Cecily.”
He set her on her feet like a naughty child and stood facing her. “Fliss, there is nothing in any feeling which I may or may not have for Cecily which concerns you remotely.”
She had probed too deep with her awkward weapons. At the rebuff she stood looking at him wide-eyed, hurt, pathetic.
“I’ve broken our bargain, haven’t I?” she said at length, stumblingly.