But she must tear her thoughts away from Anthony. She looked at Roger curiously, searchingly; in books the man who had treated his sweetheart unkindly often returned beaten, dejected, even poverty-stricken, but Roger, except for a slight hesitation in his manner, seemed as jaunty, as fortunate, as handsome as ever. He was even a trifle stouter.
Contrasting him with Anthony’s hard-bitten leanness, she addressed him half absently. “I believe you’re actually getting fat!”
His quick high flush revealed his instant sensitiveness to her criticism. But he was humble. “That’s all right, Angèle. I deserve anything you choose to say if you’ll just say it.”
She was impervious to his mood, utterly indifferent, so indifferent that she was herself unaware of her manner. “Heavens, I’ve sort of forgotten, but I don’t remember your ever having been so eager for criticism heretofore!”
He caught at one phrase. “Forgotten! You don’t mean to say you’ve forgotten the past and all that was once so dear to us?”
Impatience overwhelmed her. She wished he would go and leave her to her thoughts and to her picture; such a splendid idea had come to her; it was the first time for weeks that she had felt like working. Aware of the blessed narcotic value of interesting occupation, she looked forward to his departure with a sense of relief; even hoped with her next words to precipitate it.
“Roger, you don’t mean to say that you called on me on a hot September Sunday just to talk to me in that theatrical manner? I don’t mind telling you I’ve a million things to do this afternoon; let’s get down to bedrock so we can both be up and doing.”
She had been sitting, almost lolling at ease in the big chair, not regarding him, absently twisting a scarf in her fingers. Now she glanced up and something in the hot blueness of his eyes brought her to an upright position, alert, attentive.
“Angèle, you’ve got to take me back.”
“Back! I don’t know what you’re talking about. Between you and me there is no past, so don’t mention it. If you’ve nothing better to say than that, you might as well get out.”
He tried to possess himself of her hands but she shook him off, impatiently, angrily, with no pretence at feeling. “Go away, Roger. I don’t want to be bothered with you!” This pinchbeck emotionalism after the reality of her feeling for Anthony, the sincerity of his feeling for her! “I won’t have this sort of thing; if you won’t go I will.” She started for the door but he barred her way, suddenly straight and serious.
“No listen, Angèle, you must listen. I’m in earnest this time. You must forgive me for the past, for the things I said. Oh, I was unspeakable! But I had it in my head—you don’t know the things a man has borne in on him about designing women—if he’s got anything, family, money—” she could see him striving to hide his knowledge of his vast eligibility. “I thought you were trying to ‘get’ me, it made me suspicious, angry. I knew you were poor—”
“And nobody! Oh say it, say it!”
“Well, I will say it. According to my father’s standards, nobody. And when you began to take an interest in me, in my affairs—”
“You thought I was trying to marry you. Well, at first I was. I was poor, I was nobody! I wanted to be rich, to be able to see the world, to help people. And then when you and I came so near to each other I didn’t care about marriage at all—just about living! Oh, I suppose my attitude was perfectly pagan. I hadn’t meant to drift into such a life, all my training was against it, you can’t imagine how completely my training was against it. And then for a time I was happy. I’m afraid I didn’t love you really, Roger, indeed I know now that in a sense I didn’t love you, but somehow life seemed to focus into an absolute perfection. Then you became petulant, ugly, suspicious, afraid of my interest, of my tenderness. And I thought, ‘I can’t let this all end in a flame of ugliness; it must be possible for people to have been lovers and yet remain friends.’ I tried so hard to keep things so that it would at least remain a pleasant memory. But you resented my efforts. What I can’t understand is—why shouldn’t I, if I wanted to, either try to marry you or to make an ideal thing of our relationship? Why is it that men like you resent an effort on our part to make our commerce decent? Well, it’s all over now. … Theoretically ‘free love’ or whatever you choose to call it, is all right. Actually, it’s all wrong. I don’t want any such relationship with you or with any other man in this world. Marriage was good enough for my mother, it’s good enough for me.”
“There’s nothing good enough for you, Angèle; but marriage is the best thing that I have to offer and I’m offering you just that. And it’s precisely because you were honest and frank and decent and tried to keep our former relationship from deteriorating into sordidness that I am back.”
Clearly she was staggered. Marriage with Roger meant protection, position, untold wealth, unlimited opportunities for doing good. Once how she would have leapt to such an offer!
“What’s become of Carlotta?” she asked bluntly.
“She’s on the eve of marrying Tom Estes, a fellow who was in college with me. He has heaps more money than I. Carlotta thought she’d better take him on.”
“I see.” She looked at him thoughtfully, then the remembrance of her great secret came to her, a secret which she could never share with
