“He has a queer way of showing it, then. He never does anything but stamp and shout and find fault with me—all about an old paper-weight!”
She was caressing it as she spoke, stroking the alabaster Buddha as if it had been a live thing.
“His poor Buddha. Do you think it’ll break if I stroke it? Better not.... Honestly, Helen, I’d rather die than hurt anything he really cared for. Yet look how he hurts me.”
“Some men must hurt the things they care for.”
“I wouldn’t mind his hurting, if only I knew he cared. Helen—I’d give anything to know.”
“I think you might know.”
“I don’t! I don’t!”
“Well, you’ll know some day.”
“Never! He won’t tell me.”
“He’s Scotch, my dear. It would kill him to tell you.”