“I should have thought that you would want to accompany me when I am about to set out on a dangerous expedition.”
He was openly mocking her now. She was confused. She did not quite know whether he meant what he said or was merely trying to frighten her.
“I don’t think anyone could reasonably blame me for refusing to go to a dangerous place where I had no business or where I could be of no use.”
“You could be of the greatest use; you could cheer and comfort me.”
She grew even a little paler.
“I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
“I shouldn’t have thought it needed more than average intelligence.”
“I’m not going, Walter. It’s monstrous to ask me.”
“Then I shall not go either. I shall immediately file my petition.”
XXIII
She looked at him blankly. What he said was so unexpected that at the first moment she could hardly gather its sense.
“What on earth are you talking about?” she faltered.
Even to herself her reply rang false, and she saw the look of disdain which it called forth on Walter’s stern face.
“I’m afraid you’ve thought me a bigger fool than I am.”
She did not quite know what to say. She was undecided whether indignantly to assert her innocence or to break out into angry reproaches. He seemed to read her thoughts.
“I’ve got all the proof necessary.”
She began to cry. The tears flowed from her eyes without any particular anguish and she did not dry them: to weep gave her a little time to collect herself. But her mind was blank. He watched her without concern, and his calmness frightened her. He grew impatient.
“You’re not going to do much good by crying, you know.”
His voice, so cold and hard, had the effect of exciting in her a certain indignation. She was recovering her nerve.
“I don’t care. I suppose you have no objection to my divorcing you. It means nothing to a man.”
“Will you allow me to ask why I should put myself to the smallest inconvenience on your account?”
“It can’t make any difference to you. It’s not much to ask you to behave like a gentleman.”
“I have much too great a regard for your welfare.”
She sat up now and dried her eyes.
“What do you mean?” she asked him.
“Townsend will marry you only if he is correspondent and the case is so shameless that his wife is forced to divorce him.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she cried.
“You stupid fool.”
His tone was so contemptuous that she flushed with anger. And perhaps her anger was greater because she had never before heard him say to her any but sweet, flattering and delightful things. She had been accustomed to find him subservient to all her whims.
“If you want the truth you can have it. He’s only too anxious to marry me. Dorothy Townsend is perfectly willing to divorce him and we shall be married the moment we’re free.”
“Did he tell you that in so many words or is that the impression you have gained from his manner?”
Walter’s eyes shone with bitter mockery. They made Kitty a trifle uneasy. She was not quite sure that Charlie had ever said exactly that in so many words.
“He’s said it over and over again.”
“That’s a lie and you know it’s a lie.”
“He loves me with all his heart and soul. He loves me as passionately as I love him. You’ve found out. I’m not going to deny anything. Why should I? We’ve been lovers for a year and I’m proud of it. He means everything in the world to me and I’m glad that you know at last. We’re sick to death of secrecy and compromise and all the rest of it. It was a mistake that I ever married you, I never should have done it, I was a fool. I never cared for you. We never had anything in common. I don’t like the people you like and I’m bored by the things that interest you. I’m thankful it’s finished.”
He watched her without a gesture and without a movement of his face. He listened attentively and no change in his expression showed that what she said affected him.
“Do you know why I married you?”
“Because you wanted to be married before your sister Doris.”
It was true, but it gave her a funny little turn to realise that he knew it. Oddly enough, even in that moment of fear and anger, it excited her compassion. He faintly smiled.
“I had no illusions about you,” he said. “I knew you were silly and frivolous and empty-headed. But I loved you. I knew that your aims and ideals were vulgar and commonplace. But I loved you. I knew that you were second-rate. But I loved you. It’s comic when I think how hard I tried to be amused by the things that amused you and how anxious I was to hide from you that I wasn’t ignorant and vulgar and scandal-mongering and stupid. I knew how frightened you were of intelligence and I did everything I could to make you think me as big a fool as the rest of the men you knew. I knew that you’d only married me for convenience. I loved you so much, I didn’t care. Most people, as far as I can see, when they’re in love with someone and the love isn’t returned feel that they have a grievance. They grow angry and bitter. I wasn’t like that. I never expected you to love me, I didn’t see any reason that you should, I never thought myself very lovable. I was thankful to be allowed to love you and I was enraptured when now and then I thought you
