He returned her glance for a moment, then turned away and sat down at his writing-table. Several letters had come by the late post, and he began to open them. He had made her angry; her anger mastered her fears. "I was brought up to think as you do," she said. "To think that once married was married for ever. I suppose I think so still; and you know I've respected my--my vows. But there are limits. A woman can't be asked to give up everything. She herself--what she owes to herself--must come first--her own life, her own thoughts, her freedom, her rights as a human being." He was reading a letter and did not raise his eyes from it. "Those are modern views, I suppose? Old-fashioned folk would call them suggestions of the Devil. But we've had this sort of discussion several times before. Why go over it again? We must agree to differ." "If you would! But you don't, you can't, you never will. You say that to-night. You'll begin drilling me to your march and cutting me to your pattern again to-morrow morning." He made no reply at all. He went on reading letters. He had signified that the discussion was at an end. That ended it. It was his way; if he thought enough had been said, she was to say no more. It had happened thus a hundred times--and she had inwardly cried "Inkpat!" Well, this time--at last--she would show him that the topic was not exhausted. She would speak again, and make him speak. Malice possessed her; she smiled at the grave-faced man methodically dealing with his correspondence. For the first time there came upon her a certain satisfaction in the actual doing of the thing; before, she had dreaded that to her heart, however much she desired the freedom it would bring. To hit back once--once after five long years! "Oh, about the Chippinstalls," she said. "You can have them, of course, but I shan't be here." He turned his head quickly round towards her. "Why not?" "I'm going to the Stephen Aikenheads' to-morrow." "It's not been your habit to pay visits alone, nor to arrange visits without consulting me. And I don't much care about the atmosphere that reigns at Aikenhead's." He laid down his letters and smiled at her in a constrained fashion. "But I don't want to give you a fresh grievance. I'll stretch a point. How long do you want to be away?" He was trying to be kind; he actually was stretching a point, for he had often decried the practice of married women--young and pretty married women--going a-visiting without their husbands; and he had just as often expressed grave disapproval of her cousin, Stephen Aikenhead. For him a considerable stretch! Her malice was disarmed. Even a pang of that pity which she had declared crushed to death reached her heart. She stretched out her slim arms to him, rather as one who begs a great boon than as the deliverer of a mortal defiance. "Cyril, I'm never coming back."