"I know one who seems to," Cyprian told her gently.
Her mouth smiled gratefully at that but she kept her head bent over the tangling fingers in her lap.
"Cyprian. One should not try to run before one can walk. In some ways I am stupidly ignorant about practical facts.... Is this life too great a strain on you?"
Then, as he hesitated, while searching for her exact meaning, she went on in a swift rush of breathlessness.
"Let me get it out—somehow.... Man cannot help his dual nature. Women mostly can. If you have found Her helpful—I know you are without the mystical help religion brings in its wake—when my absence was more than you could bear, I would be willing to subordinate my prejudices on this gigantic question, to your common-sense, and let her help again should there be times when my presence may be more than you can bear. After all, she is the—mother of your son."
The last sentence was whispered and she did not move as his chair creaked.
"Ferlie!" For the first time in their lives there was a very real anger in the eyes which, unflinching now, captured hers and held them steady. His lips closed in a thin line and for a full minute she watched him, almost fearfully, as he framed his reply.
"How dare you?" he asked at long last. "How dare you?"
He got up and walked to the open door, to stand in it with his back to her, looking up and down the verandah. The act was instinctive since they were always alone, but he drew the glass panels together with a quick snapping of the latch before turning to face her again.
"You can only be a child, indeed, to come cold-bloodedly to any man with such an insult in your mind; most of all to the man you profess to respect."