Anne returned his pleading glance with perfect composure. She took the photograph out of his hand and gazed at it. As she met the girl’s eyes, a tremor of sympathy quivered through her.
“She seems a pitiful little creature,” she murmured almost against her will. “Why are you so hard on her?” She avoided his eyes.
“Because I don’t love her, I suppose!” he exclaimed harshly. “And when one doesn’t love a woman, one hates her. It is her own fault. She thrust herself into my life of her own accord when my will was crushed and almost dead, and I never shall forgive her for it. That is all.”
Once more Anne interposed in the other woman’s behalf.
“How pitiless you are! I don’t believe you understand her at all. Perhaps she loves you? Indeed I am sure she must love you.”
“Loves me,” he jeered, “she thinks she does, she is a born satellite. Her docility fills me with hatred, lowers me. When I am with her I feel that I am having intercourse with a slave, a chattel.” He flung his hands out before him, in excess of emotion, then added more quietly, “but that is all over now. For weeks I have barely spoken to her, and it is my intention never to see her again if possible.”
Anne shook her head gently.
“Unfortunately, one cannot end things like that.”
He looked at her angrily.
“Why not? If she is such a fool as to refuse to divorce me, at least I can refuse to see her!”