For a moment he fancied that he saw a light leap into her eyes; he felt her hand tremble for a moment in his. Then the expression was gone.
“How do you mean?“she said, still looking into the glass. “What do you mean, Peter? I haven't noticed anything different.”
“Oh yes, you have. You know that—ever since Stephen died and before that really—you've avoided me. You'd rather be without me than with me. You've all thought me selfish and glum and so I suppose I was. But I missed—the kid—a lot.” Again Peter felt her hand tremble. He pressed it. Then he went on, leaning more toward her now and putting an arm out to touch her dress.
“Clare—it's been like a fog all these weeks—we've never had it out, we've never talked about it, but you've been disappointed in me. You thought I was going to write great books and I haven't—and then your mother—and I——don't get on. And then I suppose I'm stupid in society—I can't talk a lot to any one who comes along as all you people can. I've been brought up differently and—and—I know you don't like to think about that either, and so I'll never bring my old friends into the house and I'll see that I'm not such a gawk at your parties—”
He paused for a moment; she was looking down now and he couldn't see her eyes. He bent forward more closely—his arm caught her waist—his hand crushed hers—
She tried desperately to pull herself together to say something—
“No—there's nothing. Well, if there is—Of course I suppose it happens to all married people—”
“What happens?”
“Why, they find one another out a little. Things aren't quite as they thought they'd be. That must happen always.”
“But tell me—tell me the things in me that have disappointed you and then I can alter—”
“Well—it's a little as you say. You have been rather rude to Mother. And then—your quarrel—”
“What! You mean with Cards!”
“With—Jerry—yes. And then,” her voice was high and sharp now—her eyes avoided his—“I've always—been
