“What has the doctor told you?”
“The doctor has told me nothing definite.”
She turned away to hide her hot face.
“You know perfectly well,” she said in a low voice, “that I shall be the mother of a child of yours in some months.”
“Yes,” he said gently.
“But you do not know,” she went on, “you do not know that this is such a shame to me, such a deathly burning shame, that I hate the light, I hate the eyes of any human creature on me, I would like to fly in the night to some desert place, and hide myself.”
“Are you mad, Gwen?”
“No, I am sane, as sane as on the day I sold myself to you for an experiment. Can you not see, Humphrey, that I am as shameful, I, your wife, as any one of those women you told me of, not one of whom you loved—loved?” she added, with an involuntary raising of her head.
“I am no nearer to you now,” she went on, “than I was that day, not a jot nearer, and yet I am going to be the mother of your child! Are you dense, Humphrey, or is it because you are a man and are grown used to chattels, that you cannot see the depth of my shame and humiliation, and the reasons for it?”
She faltered and swayed slightly.