“Every living thing can be happy after its kind,” said Herold. “Look at this great bumble-bee swinging in the campanula.”
“You were n't sent here to talk to me about bumble-bees,” she said with an air of defiance.
“No. I came to speak to you about John.”
It was a thrust of the scalpel. It hurt him cruelly to deal it, but it had to be dealt. He closely watched its effect. Her wan face grew even whiter, and her lips grew white, and she held herself rigid. Her eyes were hard.
“I forbid you to mention his name to me.”
“I must disobey you. No, my dearest,” said he, gently barring the path, “you must listen. John is as unhappy and as ill as you yourself. He is suffering greatly. I don't know what to do with him. He 's going on like a madman. You must not be unjust.”
“I 'm not unjust. I know the truth at last, and I judge accordingly.”
“You are hard, Stella. Perhaps that's the first unkind word anybody has ever spoken to you—and I've got to speak it, worse luck! John would have told you long ago of the unhappy things in his life if he had thought they could possibly concern you. As soon as he found that they might do so, he told you frankly.”
“He has told me nothing,” said Stella, icily.
“He wrote to you about his marriage over a week ago.”