She went on. "I can understand that, because I did go to him, and I—I cared for him and you didn't like it. I can even understand your wanting me to be horrid then, because it made it easier for you. I had the sense to see that that was all that was the matter with you then, so I didn't mind. But why on earth you should keep it up like this! What can it matter to you now whether I'm nice or horrid?"
She had rushed on, carried away by her own passion, without seeing where she was going. I don't think she had seen, any more than I had, that for nine years I had been living behind a screen. A screen that had hidden me from myself. I don't think she saw even now when she came crashing into it.
It was I who saw.
The thing was down about my ears; and it wasn't the violence of its fall that terrified me; it was my own nakedness. I wasn't prepared to find myself morally undressed.
I turned away from her. I began fiddling with my pens and papers. I trailed long slip-proofs under her eyes, pretending that I had work to do. But she saw through my pretences and her voice followed me.
It was softer, though. It seemed to be pleading, as if she knew nothing about me and my screen.
"What harm did I ever do you? Or poor Jimmy either? I didn't let you marry me. You ought to be grateful to Jimmy. At least he saved you from that."
I said I thought we needn't drag her husband into it, and I haven't a notion what I meant. I had to say something, and if it sounded disagreeable, so much the better.
And she said there I was again—thinking that I had to remind her that
Jimmy was her husband.
"You certainly seem to have forgotten it," I said.