"If I have, it isn't for you to be surprised, seeing that you have never once troubled to remember it."
"Marie—what do you mean? I thought . . . I mean—it was your wish . . ." He stammered and broke off; then all at once he turned away with a little harsh laugh.
"What a nice home-coming! I wish to God I'd stayed away."
"You would have done so if you'd wanted to," Marie said quietly. She waited a moment, but Chris did not speak, and she moved towards the door. "I am tired—and I dare say you are. Good-night."
He did not answer, and she went silently away.
Chris stood with his elbow on the mantelshelf, staring down into the empty grate. His pride, if nothing more serious, had received a nasty blow.
He had come home quite happily—having had the time of his life— had looked forward to seeing Marie Celeste—had planned all sorts of things for her amusement—and, incidentally, his own—in the future, and this was the reception he got!
He bit his lip savagely. What was the explanation of it all? She had always been so docile and devoted. It turned his blood to white heat to think of the apathy with which she had received his kisses— kisses that had been meant, too! His face darkened—it was the first time in his life he had ever known the slightest desire to kiss any woman, but she had looked so provokingly pretty in her white frock . . .
Chris swore and lit another cigarette. It would be a very long time before he troubled about her again, he promised himself.
He would have been furiously indignant had anyone told him that it was Marie's indifference that had fired his imagination, and 186 wakened the desire to rouse in her some show of affection.