He felt that, in a sense, she was right: he had meant at least to quiet her, to divert her thoughts. He was ashamed of that. He sought to comfort her.
"Perhaps you are mistaken," he said.
"No, no!" she said. She got up and, slipperless, began to pace the room.
Stainton struggled to his elbow.
"But, dearie," he said, seeking relief in logic, "you must have known that when a girl married, she must expect—it was expected of her—it was her duty——"
She continued to walk, her head bent.
"Yes," she answered; "but I didn't know she would have to right away, or when she didn't want to, or——"
Genuinely amazed and genuinely pained, Stainton swung his legs from the covers and sat on the edge of the bed, his hands clasped between his knees, his mouth agape.
"Sweetheart," he asked, "don't you love me?"
"Of course, I love you, Jim."—She was still walking.