"You know what I mean," she said tremulously. "You know quite well
what I mean. You were angry yesterday--angry because Hans
Schafen--a servant--had told you something that made you distrust
me. And because you were angry, you--you--you insulted me!" She
turned round upon him suddenly with eyes of burning accusation.
She was fighting, fighting, with all her might, to hide from him
that frightened, quivering thing that she herself had recognized
but yesterday. If it had been a plague-spot, she could not have
guarded it more jealously. Its presence scared her. Her every
instinct was to screen it somehow, somehow, from those keen eyes.
For he was so horribly strong, so shrewd, so merciless!
He came up to her as she wheeled. He took one of her quivering
wrists, and held it, his fingers closely pressed upon the leaping
pulse. "Sylvia!" he said, and this time there was an edge to his
voice that made her aware that he was putting force upon himself.
"I have never insulted you--or distrusted you. Everything was
against me yesterday. But when I left you, I gave all I possessed
into your keeping. It is in your keeping still. Does that look
like distrust?"
She gave, a quick, involuntary start, but he went on, scarcely
pausing.
"When a man is going into possible danger, and his wife is thinking
of--other things, is he so greatly to blame if he takes the
quickest means at his disposal of waking her up?"
"Ah!" she said.
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