He paused a moment, he didn't want to seem malicious, but he went on: "Laurence is a strong man. He's taken what he could get, to help him do his work, and I say he was right. But it wasn't what he wanted. He didn't want drink and other women, not seriously. It was trouble with you that made him turn to them."
She sat marble-still, not an eyelash moving. Lavery added:
"I ought to say, he never said a word about that. It's my own observation, that's all."
Again he was silent, watching her still profile, barely visible; guessing at the tumult within her, the rage of offended pride. (If she was determined to dislike him, he would give her something to dislike him for.) He decided that it was time for her to speak now.
But Mary was struck dumb. Her outleap of rage against Lavery recoiled upon herself.... She deserved it, for talking to him in any sort of confidence, for breaking her reserve, compromising her personal dignity—of course he had taken advantage of this. She strove to re-establish her contempt of him. He should not see that she had felt his treacherous attack.
It was some moments before she could say, coolly:
"If you think Laurence has done right, why did you ask me to 'do something about it'?"
He lost the thread of the discourse for a moment, in irritation.
"Why, I meant—I meant—that he had done the best he could, in the circumstances.... But it seems to me he's under a heavy strain—in fact, perhaps in danger of breaking down under it. I wonder if you couldn't ease it, somehow."
It was only partly a game. There was a sincere feeling in Lavery too. He admired—even though unwillingly—the more gifted man. Yes, and he had reluctant admiration for Mary too.