“Oh, but couldn’t you tell by her face?”
I shook my head. I could only repeat that by no word, by no hinted gesture, had she given an indication of her feelings. He must know better than I how great were her powers of self-control. He clasped his hands emotionally.
“Oh, I’m so frightened. I know something is going to happen, something terrible, and I can do nothing to stop it.”
“What sort of thing?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he moaned, seizing his head with his hands. “I foresee some terrible catastrophe.”
Stroeve had always been excitable, but now he was beside himself; there was no reasoning with him. I thought it probable enough that Blanche Stroeve would not continue to find life with Strickland tolerable, but one of the falsest of proverbs is that you must lie on the bed that you have made. The experience of life shows that people are constantly doing things which must lead to disaster, and yet by some chance manage to evade the result of their folly. When Blanche quarrelled with Strickland she had only to leave him, and her husband was waiting humbly to forgive and forget. I was not prepared to feel any great sympathy for her.
“You see, you don’t love her,” said Stroeve.
“After all, there’s nothing to prove that she is unhappy. For all we know they may have settled down into a most domestic couple.”
Stroeve gave me a look with his woeful eyes.
“Of course it doesn’t much matter to you, but to me it’s so serious, so intensely serious.”