‘How very poetical!’ she said, with a little choking laugh, unknown relentings, unfamiliar softnesses, moving within her. ‘What would you be at?’ she added, hardening her voice.
‘I would be at this,’ he answered; ‘and hard it is to say. I would be at this:—Seraphina, I am your husband after all, and a poor fool that loves you. Understand,’ he cried almost fiercely, ‘I am no suppliant husband; what your love refuses I would scorn to receive from your pity. I do not ask, I would not take it. And for jealousy, what ground have I? A dog-in-the-manger jealousy is a thing the dogs may laugh at. But at least, in the world’s eye, I am still your husband; and I ask you if you treat me fairly? I keep to myself, I leave you free, I have given you in everything your will. What do you in return? I find, Seraphina, that you have been too thoughtless. But between persons such as we are, in our conspicuous station, particular care and a particular courtesy are owing. Scandal is perhaps not easy to avoid; but it is hard to bear.’
‘Scandal!’ she cried, with a deep breath. ‘Scandal! It is for this you have been driving!’
‘I have tried to tell you how I feel,’ he replied. ‘I have told you that I love you—love you in vain—a bitter thing for a husband; I have laid myself open that I might speak without offence. And now that I have begun, I will go on and finish.’
‘I demand it,’ she said. ‘What is this about?’
Otto flushed crimson. ‘I have to say what I would fain not,’ he answered. ‘I counsel you to see less of Gondremark.’
‘Of Gondremark? And why?’ she asked.
‘Your intimacy is the ground of scandal, madam,’ said Otto, firmly enough—‘of a scandal that is agony to me, and would be crushing to your parents if they knew it.’
‘You are the first to bring me word of it,’ said she. ‘I thank you.’
‘You have perhaps cause,’ he replied. ‘Perhaps I am the only one among your friends—’