This enraged her.
"You vile creature!" she exclaimed. "Go! What have you come for?"
"To look at you," he said sarcastically.
After a few minutes she began to cry, sobbing violently into her apron. And again his bowels stirred and boiled.
"What have I done! What have I done! I don't know what I've done that he should be like this to me," she sobbed, into her apron. It was childish, and perhaps true. At least it was true from the childish part of her nature. He sat gloomy and uneasy.
She took the apron from her tear-stained face, and looked at him. It was true, in her moments of roused exposure she was a beautiful woman—a beautiful woman. At this moment, with her flushed, tear-stained, wilful distress, she was beautiful.
"Tell me," she challenged. "Tell me! Tell me what I've done. Tell me what you have against me. Tell me."
Watching like a lynx, she saw the puzzled, hurt look in his face. Telling isn't so easy—especially when the trouble goes too deep for conscious comprehension. He couldn't tell what he had against her. And he had not the slightest intention of doing what she would have liked him to do, starting to pile up detailed grievances. He knew the detailed grievances were nothing in themselves.
"You can't," she cried vindictively. "You can't. You can't find anything real to bring against me, though you'd like to. You'd like to be able to accuse me of something, but you can't, because you know there isn't anything."
She watched him, watched. And he sat in the chair near the door, without moving.
"You're unnatural, that's what you are," she cried. "You're unnatural. You're not a man. You haven't got a man's feelings. You're nasty, and cold, and unnatural. And you're a coward. You're a coward. You run away from me, without telling me what you've got against me."
"When you've had enough, you go away and you don't care what you do," he said, epigrammatic.
