ing when I went there to-day. It all seems to mean so much. It’s all so terrible and their self-sacrifice is so wonderful; I can’t help feeling it’s absurd and disproportionate, if you understand what I mean, to distress yourself because a foolish woman has been unfaithful to you. I’m much too worthless and insignificant for you to give me a thought.”
He did not answer, but he did not move away; he seemed to be waiting for her to continue.
“Mr. Waddington and the nuns have told me such wonderful things about you. I’m very proud of you, Walter.”
“You used not to be; you used to feel contempt for me. Don’t you still?”
“Don’t you know that I’m afraid of you?”
Again he was silent.
“I don’t understand you,” he said at last. “I don’t know what it is you want.”
“Nothing for myself. I only want you to be a little less unhappy.”
She felt him stiffen and his voice was very cold when he answered.
“You’re mistaken in thinking I’m unhappy. I have a great deal too much to do to think of you very often.”
“I have wondered if the nuns would allow me to go and work at the convent. They are very short-handed and if I could be of any help I should be grateful to them.”
“It is not easy work or pleasant work. I doubt if it would amuse you long.”
“Do you absolutely despise me, Walter?”
