"Indeed! You go there!"
"You see, Jude, it is lonely here in the week-day mornings, when you are at work, and I think and think of—of my—" She stopped till she could control the lumpiness of her throat. "And I have taken to go in there, as it is so near."
"Oh, well—of course, I say nothing against it. Only it is odd, for you. They little think what sort of chiel is amang them!"
"What do you mean, Jude?"
"Well—a sceptic, to be plain."
"How can you pain me so, dear Jude, in my trouble! Yet I know you didn't mean it. But you ought not to say that."
"I won't. But I am much surprised!"
"Well—I want to tell you something else, Jude. You won't be angry, will you? I have thought of it a good deal since my babies died. I don't think I ought to be your wife—or as your wife—any longer."
"What!... But you are!"
"From your point of view; but—"
"Of course we were afraid of the ceremony, and a good many others would have been in our places, with such strong reasons for fear. But experience has proved how we misjudged ourselves, and overrated our infirmities; and if you are beginning to respect rites and ceremonies, as you seem to be, I wonder you don't say it shall be carried out instantly? You certainly are my wife, Sue, in all but law. What do you mean by what you said?"
"I don't think I am!"
"Not? But suppose we had gone through the ceremony? Would you feel that you were then?"
No. I should not feel even then that I was. I should feel worse than I do now."
"Why so—in the name of all that's perverse, my dear!"
"Because I am Richard's."
"Ah—you hinted that absurd fancy to me before!"
