He turned to go up the staircase, but she caught him back with a little cry.
“Dick, why aren’t we like we used to be?”
He looked at her almost with dislike. “Isn’t it late for psychological discussion? What do you mean?”
She faced him with the question which was clamoring in her mind, tugging at her heart all the time.
“Dick—do you love me?”
It jarred on him unspeakably—this forcing of emotion.
“Isn’t that rather an unnecessary question?”
“I’m afraid it isn’t.”
“I wish you wouldn’t be so high strung all the time, Cecily. I realize you’ve had a bad time lately; in fact, it seems to me you’ve had a bad time ever since we were married. But it does wear on me—this atmosphere of tragedy.”
“Then why must we have it? It wasn’t like that when we were first married.”