Naturally satiety had come to him. He was indifferent whether he saw her or not for a season. Only in his absence she was to obey blindly his caprices. If only she was his wife, she thought bitterly, in the humdrum Durdleham way, where at least she would have had the conventional position in their conjugal relations! Either that or the wild independence of a Loulou Mendès, carrying her will in her hand, free to choose her own way among the groves of the satyrs. For even there the free path smells sweeter than the one of servitude. Just before the session ended Clytie came to a definite understanding with her husband. It is surprising what pain can underlie this mutual adjustment of two intelligences. The scene was again the breakfast-room. Each was reading the morning's correspondence. Thornton tossed a letter across the table. “Carteret's women folk can't come,” he said. “Devilish sensible women--they don't see the fun of it. So it's settled. I go up as soon as this wretched grind is over.” “Very well,” said Clytie calmly. “I hope you will have a good time.” “Thanks,” he replied in his careless way. “It will be like old times again. And you will put in a good, quiet couple of months with your people.” Clytie bit her lip. Her heart beat a little faster. She was going to set herself in opposition to him. She glanced at him before she spoke; he hardly seemed to expect an answer, but continued reading another letter. He looked kind and frank, she thought, a husband for any woman to be proud of. In his morning freshness, clean-shaven, groomed, trimmed, he seemed handsomer than ever. His close brown hair had not a touch of gray; scarcely a line showed on his forehead or beneath his eyes; and the dark rich colour was visible beneath the bronze on his cheek. He broke into a laugh, buoyant and careless, over his letter, and looked up at Clytie. Then, his glance meeting hers, his face grew more serious. “What are you gazing at me for with those great blue eyes of yours, Clytie?” She bent forward, rested her cheek on her hand. “In regard to what you have just said--my going to Durdleham--I am not going for many reasons. I told you so, Thornton, the other day.” “I am quite aware of it,” said Thornton. “But you are going.” He looked her full in the face, and she returned his gaze calmly and unflinchingly. “Don't let us quarrel, Thornton,” she said. “It is so sordid and petty. Let us try quietly to understand one another.” His glance fell first, and he threw himself back in his chair with a laugh and unfolded his paper. “All right--we'll bar scenes. Only don't say anything too severe or you'll spoil my breakfast.” “Thornton,” she said, not changing her attitude, “I think I know what my duty is towards you, and I try to perform it. Has it ever struck you that you may have some duties towards me?” “I can't say it has,” he replied.