She lifted her head quickly and showed him her puckered face. "Are you still so cross?" "I--don't know. I've been miserable enough," he said, but he had to smile on her. She was astonished that he should have no difficulty in speaking of himself, and she looked at him in this surprised consideration before she tempted him to say more. "Why?" she asked. "You wouldn't understand." "I might." "How much I wanted you." She tapped her thimble against her teeth. "It's so absurd," she said softly. "Eh?" She hated him to say that, and she frowned a little as he asked, "Why is it absurd?" "Because you don't know me at all." "That's nothing to do with it." He stood up and kicked a protruding coal. "Nothing to do with it. I know I--want you." He turned sharply towards her. "I was half drunk that night." "I wish you wouldn't talk about it." He added abruptly, "I've had nothing since." Her silence implied that this was only what she had expected and, feeling baulked of his effect, he sighed again. "Oh, you are so pathetic! Why don't you smile?" He did it, and she nodded her applause, while he, appeased and daring, asked her, "Well, did you miss me?" "Yes. A little." "Are you glad I'm here?" "I think so." "When will you be sure?" "Ah, that depends on you. I hate you to be rough." "God knows I've had enough to make me. You wear me out, you're so damned superior." "I'm afraid that's not my fault!" He swore under his breath. "At it again!" "Oh, dear!" she cried, "that was meant to be a joke! I thought it rather good! Shall I make some coffee? They say a wise woman always has good things for her--for a man to eat and drink. I'm going to try it." They drank in silence, but as he put down his cup, she said, twinkling over hers, "Was I a wise woman?" and suddenly she felt the great loneliness of the house, and remembered that she was a woman, and this man's wife. She looked down that he might see no change. He did not answer, and the coals, dropping in the grate, were like little tongues clicking in distress. She wondered if he were ever going to speak. "Give me your cup," she heard him say, and his voice was confident. She felt a hand put firmly on her shoulder, and she saw him bending over her. "Good-night," he said, "I'm going," and still with that hand on her, he kissed her mouth. She did not move when the door was shut behind him: she leaned back in the chair, pressed there by his kiss, her hands limp in her lap. She respected him at last. There had been dignity in that kiss, and she thought it better that he should take what he desired than sit too humble under her gaze, but she knew she was no longer what she had been. He had, in some manner, made her partly his: not by the spirit, not by her will, but by taking something from her: there was more to take, and she was sure now that he would take it. She was not angry, but for a long time she cried quietly in her chair. CHAPTER XXXII