"Oh, my darling, God only knows. Don't ask me. To me there seems only one thing to do--to smite him in the mouth--and you whom I worship have tied my hands. And I sit here! What do you think is happening to me inside? I'm mad! I can promise nothing. I need time to think. Helen, if you would hate him always, I could bear it better. But you won't, you'll grow fond of him--and I suppose I should be glad; but I can't stand that." He put her down roughly and stood over her. "I can't endure this any longer," he said under his breath, and went. Then she realized what she had done to him, and with how much gentleness he had used her. She ran after him and called from the stairhead: "Zebedee! Wait for me. Kiss me once more. I'll never ask again. It isn't easy for me, either, Zebedee." He stood, helpless, enraged at destiny, aware that any weapon he might lift in her defence would fall on her and wound her. He could do nothing but swear his lasting love, his ready service. CHAPTER XXXIII She thought Zebedee would come to her on the next day, or the next, but she watched in vain for him. Though she had sent him from her, she longed for him to be back, and at night, when George entered the kitchen, she hardly looked up to welcome him. Her mind was more concerned with Zebedee's absence than with George's presence, but in her white face and tired eyes he fancied resentment for the kiss that still burned on his own mouth. "You haven't much to say," he told her, after an hour of silence. He did not know if he most hated or adored the smooth head turned sideways, the small ear and the fine eyebrow, the aloofness that kept him off and drew him on; but he knew he was the victim of a glorious kind of torment of which she was the pain and the delight. "I have been thinking," she explained. "Then why don't you tell me what you think about?" "Would you be interested?" She smiled at the thought of telling him with what anxiety she looked for Zebedee, with what anger she blamed him for neglect, with what increase she loved him. "Yes, I would. Now you're laughing. D'you think it funny? D'you think I can't read or write, or understand the way you speak?" "George," she said, "I wish you wouldn't get so cross. I don't think any of those things." "Never think about me at all, I suppose. Not worth it." She answered slowly, "Yes, you are," and he grunted a mockery of thanks. It was some time before he threw out two words of accusation. "You're different." "Different?" "That's what I said. You never answer straight." "Don't I?" "There you are again!" "What do you want me to say? Shall I ask you how I'm different? Well, I've asked, George. Won't you answer?" "I can't. I can't explain. But a few nights back--well--all tonight you've been sitting as if I wasn't here. I don't know why I stand it. Look here! You married me." "So you are always telling me; but no one can buy the things you want."