The Return of Odysseus

Tyson returned by the end of the following week. He found his wife in the
big hall. She was standing by the fireplace, with one foot on the
curbstone of the hearth, the other lifted a little to the blaze. Her arms
lay along the chimney-piece, her head drooped over them. Her back was
towards him as he came in, and she did not turn at the sound of his
footsteps. He went up to her, put his arm round her waist and led her
gently into the library. She had started violently at his touch, but she
made no resistance. He meant to kiss and comfort her.

"Darling," he said, "I was awfully cut up. Tell me about the poor little
beggar."

He held her closer. His breath was like flame against her cheek. When he
spoke he coughed--a short hard cough.

She pushed against his arm and broke from him. Then she turned. "Don't
speak of him! Don't speak of him!"

"I won't, dear, if you'd rather not. Only don't think I didn't care."

"Don't tell me you cared!" She held her arms outstretched, the hands
clenched. Her small body was tense with passion. "Don't tell me. It's
a lie. You never cared. You hated him from the first. You kept me from
him lest I should love him better than you. You would have taken me away
and left him here. You were cruel. And you knew it. You stayed away
because you knew it. You were afraid, and no wonder. I know why you did
it. You thought I didn't love you. Was that the way to make me love you?"