CHAPTER XI
THE RETURN OF ODYSSEUS
Tyson returned by the end of the following week. He found his wife in the big hall. She was standing by the fireplace, with one foot on the curbstone of the hearth, the other lifted a little to the blaze. Her arms lay along the chimney-piece, her head drooped over them. Her back was towards him as he came in, and she did not turn at the sound of his footsteps. He went up to her, put his arm round her waist and led her gently into the library. She had started violently at his touch, but she made no resistance. He meant to kiss and comfort her.
"Darling," he said, "I was awfully cut up. Tell me about the poor little beggar."
He held her closer. His breath was like flame against her cheek. When he spoke he coughed—a short hard cough.
She pushed against his arm and broke from him. Then she turned. "Don't speak of him! Don't speak of him!"
"I won't, dear, if you'd rather not. Only don't think I didn't care."
"Don't tell me you cared!" She held her arms outstretched, the hands clenched. Her small body was tense with passion. "Don't tell me. It's a lie. You never cared. You hated him from the first. You kept me from him lest I should love him better than you. You would have taken me away and left him here. You were cruel. And you knew it. You stayed away because you knew it. You were afraid, and no wonder. I know why you did it. You thought I didn't love you. Was that the way to make me love you?"
"Molly," he said faintly, "I didn't know. I never thought you'd take it to heart that way. Come—" He held out his hand.
She too had said "Come." She remembered the answer: "Impossible."