We were silent a while, and in my imagination I saw again the distressing spectacle of Felicia weeping. I suppose there is no man who has been married a year who has not made his Felicia cry.
You cannot explain how the terrible thing came about. It may be you had a moment of surface impatience. Generally it’s something less definite than that—a bit of chaff at an untimely moment, an indiscreet question put forth in a spirit of the friendliest curiosity.
“Why,” for instance you may have said, “isn’t dinner ready?”
You didn’t mind its not being ready in the least, but, not being used to having dinners of your own, you were amused and interested to know the cause of its lateness. And there before your eyes the unbelievable has happened, Felicia is in tears, and it is your fault.
You are like a landsman who has pulled an innocent-looking plug out of the bottom of a boat and sees it fill and founder before his eyes; you feel like a man who lights a match and lo! his house is in flames; with such horror and bewilderment does the sight of a weeping Felicia fill you. Guilt and bewilderment struggle with one another, as her mouth quivers pitifully and her eyes fill with slow tears. She turns away to battle with them, and, instead of holding your tongue, you choose from among all the silly, inadequate things there are in the world to say, “What’s the matter, dear?”
“I—I—left—a book in—my room,” answers Felicia, and she pushes past you and goes out of the door, and, though you don’t know it at the time, she is as bewildered as you are.
You walk up and down the floor two or three times, you open the door and shut it, finally you can’t stand it any longer, you must find out how Felicia does. You go up to your room, and there on the bed is what is left of the gallant, saucy Felicia you know. It is a crumpled little heap, and you can see only a knot of disordered hair and shaking shoulders, and as if this wasn’t bad enough, there is added the sound of muffled sobs. You go up to her and put a beseeching hand on her shoulder.
“Felicia,” you implore. Then from the depths of the pillow come the broken words:
“Go—away—go—away—and—leave—me—alone.” Nor is the tone all anguish, anger finds its place there as well, and this bewilders you still more. You could not know, of course, that Felicia is angry at you for having seen her cry.
“I can’t go away and leave you like this,” you say.