She seemed to find some difficulty in proceeding. Very soon she was to give another child unto the world. Perhaps it was that which made her seem so weak. She never had been very pretty. She had not grown prettier with the passage of the years. Now, as she stood trembling so that she had to clutch at the table to keep her stand, she seemed an insignificant, pale-faced, ill-shaped woman--not a thing of beauty to the eye. She seemed, also, to be in mortal terror. "Geoffrey, I would have told you all along, only I was afraid." "Afraid to tell me that you had set up as a rival in the business? I see. Go on." "I wouldn't have done it at all if we hadn't been so short of money." "Which was because you had a blundering fool for a husband. That is clear. Well?" "The children wanted things, and--and there were the bills, and--and the rent." "Which you paid. Now I understand Mr. Briggs' civility, the tradesmen's reticence. I have been living on my wife. What a blind worm a man who has the use of his eyes can be!" "I--I never meant to be your rival--never, Geoffrey, never." "Mr. Philip Ayre----" "Don't call me Mr. Philip Ayre!" "Why not? Aren't you Mr. Philip Ayre?" "Oh, Geoffrey! Geoffrey!" She knelt down before him, so that her hands fell on his knees as he was seated on his chair. He moved her hands and rose. "Let us understand each other, quietly. Philippa, I told you, before we were married, that I objected to a woman who worked for money. I had no objection to _women_ who worked for money. That was no affair of mine. I simply objected to make such an one my wife. I imagined, when you became my wife, that you would make my hopes and my ambitions yours. Indeed, you told me that you would. I was poor, and you were poor. You knew that I would work for you with all my strength. And so I have done. When, a little time ago, you suggested that you, too, should become a labourer for hire, I told you, with such courtesy as I could command, that, to me, the idea was nauseous. Perhaps I should have told you then, what, indeed, I had told you before, and what I tell you now again, that rather than have a wife who worked for money, I would have no wife. You were perfectly aware of this. You were well acquainted with what I thought and felt upon the matter. I do not say that my thoughts and feelings were correct. Still, they were mine. You said you loved me. You swore it every day. I never dreamed that, to you, my wishes were nothing, and less than nothing. And that you should deliberately set yourself to cheat me out of the fruits of what you well knew was the labour and the longing of my life--" "Not cheat you, Geoffrey--no, not cheat you!"