"I suppose you're comfortably off now?" he said.
"Thank you, yes."
"Why didn't you let me provide for you? I would have, in spite of
everything."
A faint smile came on her lips; but she did not answer.
"You are still my wife," said Soames. Why he said that, what he meant
by it, he knew neither when he spoke nor after. It was a truism
almost preposterous, but its effect was startling. She rose from the
window-seat, and stood for a moment perfectly still, looking at him. He
could see her bosom heaving. Then she turned to the window and threw it
open.
"Why do that?" he said sharply. "You'll catch cold in that dress. I'm
not dangerous." And he uttered a little sad laugh.
She echoed it--faintly, bitterly.
"It was--habit."
"Rather odd habit," said Soames as bitterly. "Shut the window!"
She shut it and sat down again. She had developed power, this
woman--this--wife of his! He felt it issuing from her as she sat there,
in a sort of armour. And almost unconsciously he rose and moved
nearer; he wanted to see the expression on her face. Her eyes met his
unflinching. Heavens! how clear they were, and what a dark brown against
that white skin, and that burnt-amber hair! And how white her shoulders.
Funny sensation this! He ought to hate her.
"You had better tell me," he said; "it's to your advantage to be free as
well as to mine. That old matter is too old."
"I have told you."
"Do you mean to tell me there has been nothing--nobody?"
"Nobody. You must go to your own life."
Stung by that retort, Soames moved towards the piano and back to
the hearth, to and fro, as he had been wont in the old days in their
drawing-room when his feelings were too much for him.
"That won't do," he said. "You deserted me. In common justice it's for
you...."
He saw her shrug those white shoulders, heard her murmur:
"Yes. Why didn't you divorce me then? Should I have cared?"
He stopped, and looked at her intently with a sort of curiosity. What on
earth did she do with herself, if she really lived quite alone? And why
had he not divorced her? The old feeling that she had never understood
him, never done him justice, bit him while he stared at her.
"Why couldn't you have made me a good wife?" he said.
"Yes; it was a crime to marry you. I have paid for it. You will find
some way perhaps. You needn't mind my name, I have none to lose. Now I
think you had better go."