"Yes, I suppose you will."
His harassed desperate eyes rested on Mary, searching, piercing.
"And you," he said thickly, "are responsible to me."
"For what?"
"For this whole thing—it's your fault."
"Is it indeed?"
"It is!... and your action tonight proves it. Flying out of the house—to your lover."
Mary was seated with her back to him, changing her wet shoes and stockings. She laughed—ironical laughter, deep with scorn.
"Yes, laugh! I know it's true!... Oh, I don't know what your actions have been, how can I know?... But I know your feeling, I know it hasn't been with me, but with some one else. You married me with that feeling in your heart—you did me a great wrong. I couldn't stand it.... For what I've done that's wrong, by God, you're responsible!"
Mary put on her slippers and stood up, tying the cord of the dressing-gown round her waist. She looked at him with cutting contempt.