On the Stairs

It was reprehensible, of course; he saw that in an instant, for he shut
his teeth over something that sounded very fierce, and strode away from
me, to stand looking out over the river, with his hands thrust in his
pockets. Of course the thing I should have done was to ignore what he
had said altogether, but he was so uncomfortable, so chastened, that,
feline, feminine, whatever the instinct is, I could not let him go. I
had been so wretched myself.

"What is it you would like to say?" I called over to him. He did not
speak. "Would you tell me that I am a silly child for pouting?" No
reply; he struck a match. "Or would you preach a nice little sermon
about people--about women--loving their husbands?"

He grunted savagely under his breath.

"Be quite honest," I pursued relentlessly. "Say that we are a lot
of barbarians, say that because my--because Jimmy treats me
outrageously--oh, he does; any one can see that--and because I loathe
him--and any one can tell that--why don't you say you are shocked to
the depths?" I was a little shocked myself by that time, but I couldn't
stop, having started.

He came over to me, white-faced and towering, and he had the audacity
to grip my arm and stand me on my feet, like a bad child--which I was, I
dare say.

"Don't!" he said in a husky, very pained voice. "You are only talking;
you don't mean it. It isn't YOU. You know you care, or else why are you
crying up here? And don't do it again, DON'T DO IT AGAIN--or I will--"