It was not exactly pleasant to remember the years that were gone, through which she had so faithfully adored him, and contrast them with the steely feeling of her lips beneath his and the resistance of her slim body in his arms.
Who was responsible for the change? He sought for it in everyone but himself. He was the most suspicious of young Atkins—he was near Marie's age, and had from the first shown a ridiculous interest in her.
It was odd that he never seriously considered Feathers. Feathers was his friend and disliked all women; any attention he had shown to Marie had been out of ordinary courtesy, nothing more.
Well, if this was the attitude she meant to adopt, he would soon let her see that he was quite indifferent. He would go his own way and leave her severely alone. Hang it all, he had brought her home a bracelet, and written whenever there had been anything to write about. He would not have believed it possible for her to be so unreasonable.
He comforted himself with the reflection that in a few days she would come to her senses. All their lives there had been little ups and downs of this kind, and she had never failed in the end to say she was sorry.
She needed a firm hand—he supposed that all women did.
Having argued himself back into a more complacent state of mind, Chris turned out the light and went, up to bed.
His room was next to Marie's, and as he moved about it in his stockinged feet, once or twice he was sure that he heard the sound of stifled sobbing, though whenever he stood still to listen all was quiet again.
Once he even softly tried the handle of the communicating door, but it was locked, and he frowned as he turned away.
She had been so different that Sunday afternoon when he asked her to marry him. It gave him an unpleasant twinge to remember the shy 187 radiance of her face. He was very sure that she would not have repulsed him then had he taken her in his arms and kissed her.