She too was strangely angry. She had been thrilled all evening by the thought of this home-coming. She had been saving up emotions to throw her into Gage’s arms. She wanted to feel—to tell him she loved him. He was making it impossible.
They stood there, longing for each other, yet on guard mentally, afraid of the other’s thrust, the other’s mockery.
“Of course I can’t refuse to let you have any friend of yours here at the house. Only if she comes, I do wish you’d excuse me as much as possible. I do not want to be rude and I certainly shall be if she involves me in these feminist arguments.”
“I don’t believe Margaret would argue with you, Gage.” She said it lightly, her insinuation that he was beyond the pale of argument flicking him with a little sting.
“Possibly not. However, I should not care to waste her time. And as I said to you to-night I don’t like her effect on you.”
“I am not particularly under her influence, Gage. I have my own ideas. What you probably mean is that you object to my doing the things which are interesting women all over the world.”
“When have I ever objected to anything you’ve done?”
“I’ve done nothing, have I? Been secretary to a few small town clubs. Kept house. Tended my babies. That’s all I’ve done except play the piano.”
“Did that dissatisfy you as much as your tone implies?”
“It’s not enough to satisfy women now.”