“Why? Didn’t you want to?”
“You know I wanted to. But we’ve settled nothing, dear.”
“Why did you come?” asked Cecily.
“I suppose I was called by the holiday,” answered Dick with simple truthfulness. “I came instinctively. I—couldn’t help it.”
“The same as what?”
“As you did when you went.”
Dick seemed to search his memory. “Well, it never was very clear to me just what the issue was. If you mean that I feel terribly in the wrong now, terribly culpable for all those misunderstandings which broke us up, I don’t believe I do feel that. I still don’t know quite where I was wrong. I was stupid about things, little things, of course.”
“But, Dick, don’t you feel that—that this life is the best? With me, with the children? Don’t you see that the things I wanted to avoid had to be avoided?”
He scrutinized the dogmatism of her face carefully, painfully. It was such an exalted face. It seemed such a pity that he couldn’t put it at rest. All she wants, he thought, is a whale of an apology for sins I may not be conscious of, but which I may have committed.