clear her hoarse voice and to speak calmly . . . so that he might know:
"Oh," she began, reflectively, wishing to show him at once that she had not come to make reproaches, that she did not wish to make a scene, "I wanted to speak to you . . . to ask your advice . . ."
Her voice, now under control, sounded soft, as she wished it; and he was astonished for a second, just remembered, almost unconsciously, that she had not been so quick-tempered lately, that in fact they had not had a scene for weeks. Still he continued suspicious: she, who never asked his advice! And he echoed:
"To ask my advice?"
"Yes," she went on, in that same calm, reflective tone, with a certain constraint, "I wanted to tell you—what do you think?—Vreeswijck stayed talking to me for a long time yesterday evening . . . and he wanted absolutely . . ."
"Wanted what?"
She saw him turn pale; his eyes blazed angrily, as though sparks were flashing from that vivid blue, generally so young and boyish.
"He would so much like . . . he asked me . . ."
She could not get the words out, looked at him, afraid of his eyes, now that she was in no mood for a scene of mutual recrimination. But she could not keep silent either:
