"I don't particularly mind your being jealous, James, if that's any comfort to you."
"No! Why on earth should you? You're living up to your part of the bargain, and I'm not—that's what it comes to. Oh, it's all my fault, every bit of it—no doubt of that!"
His words gave Beatrice a new sensation, not so much a sinking as a steeling of the heart. His self-accusation was all very well, but if it also involved trampling on her—! And she did begin to feel trampled upon; much more so now than when he had directly accused her.... That was odd! Was it possible that she would rather be vilified than ignored, even by James?
Meanwhile James was ranting on—it had not occurred to her that it was ranting before, but it did now:—"There's something about the mere institution of marriage, I suppose, that makes me feel this way; the old idea of possession or something.... You were right about the cave-man! It's something stronger than me—I can't help it; but if it's going on like this every time you—every time you speak to another man, it'll make a delightful thing out of our married life, won't it? This free and easy bargain of ours, this sensible arrangement! Why, it's a thousand times harder than an ordinary marriage, just because I have nothing to hold you with!...
"Beatrice, we're caught in something. Trapped! Don't you feel it? Something you can't see, can't understand, only feel gradually pressing in on you, paralyzing you, smothering you! There's no use blaming each other for it; we're both wound up in it equally; it's something far stronger than either of us. A pair of blind mice in a trap!..."
He flung himself across the room to an open window and stood there, resting his elbows on the sill and gazing out over the twinkling lights of the city. Beatrice sat immovable in her chair, but her bosom was heaving with the memory of certain things he had said. Another revulsion of feeling mastered her; she no longer thought of him as ranting; she felt his words too strongly for that. A pair of blind mice in a trap—yes, yes, she felt all that, but that was not what had stirred her so. What was that he had said about having nothing to hold her with?...
She watched him as he stood there trying to cool his tortured mind in the evening air. He was tremendously worked up; she wondered if he could stand this sort of thing physically; she remembered how ill he had been looking lately.... She watched him with a new anxiety, half expecting to see him topple over backward at any moment, overcome by the strain. Then she could help him; her mind conjured up a vision of herself running into the dining room for some whisky and back to him with the glass in her hand; "Here, drink this," and her hand under his head.... It was wicked of her to wish anything of the kind, of course; but if she could only be of some use to him! If he would but think of turning to her for help in getting out of his trap! He would not find his fellow-mouse cold or unsympathetic.
She could not overcome her desire to find out if any such idea was in his mind. She went over to him and touched him gently on the shoulder.
"James—"
"No, not now, please; I want to think."