He would not, or he could not say. Perhaps he really did not know what he meant; or some subtle instinct, telling him that a great peril to his peace and comfort was drawing nearer and nearer, had enabled him to pierce the mystery and had prompted the words of the offending question. He sat gasping and gaping while she stormed at him.
"Understand once for all that I won't be watched and spied upon."
"I am no spy," he said huskily; "except when you've made me one."
The door was closed, but her angry voice rang out above the glass partitions. All through the offices it was known that the manager had put Mrs. T. into tantrums.
Suddenly the storm blew itself out. Mrs. Thompson paced the room; then stopped near the empty fireplace, with her hands clasped behind her back. Her attitude was altogether manlike. It was the big man, sitting huddled on the chair, wiping his cheeks, and blowing his nose, who displayed signs of womanish emotion.
"Mr. Mears, don't let's have any more of it. You and I must never quarrel. It would be too absurd. We are friends—we are comrades;" and she went over to the chair, and shook hands with her comrade. "That's right. You and I know each other; you and I can trust each other."
Then she again walked up and down the room, speaking as she moved.
"To show how absolutely I trust you, I'll say to you what I wouldn't say to anyone—no, not to my daughter. I am sorry if I have seemed fretful of late. But the reason is this. I have been passing through a mental struggle—a struggle that has tried me sorely." In her tone and the whole aspect of her face as she made this confession, there was something far above the narrow realm of sex, something that man or woman might be proud to show—a generous candour, a fearless truth, a noble simplicity. "A hard struggle, Mr. Mears—and I'm a little shaken, but quite victorious.... Now this is between ourselves—and it must go no further."
"It never shall," said Mr. Mears earnestly.