Nothing to do with it. I know I--want you." He turned sharply
towards her. "I was half drunk that night."

"I wish you wouldn't talk about it."

He added abruptly, "I've had nothing since."

Her silence implied that this was only what she had expected and,
feeling baulked of his effect, he sighed again.

"Oh, you are so pathetic! Why don't you smile?" He did it, and she
nodded her applause, while he, appeased and daring, asked her, "Well,
did you miss me?"

"Yes. A little."

"Are you glad I'm here?"

"I think so."

"When will you be sure?"

"Ah, that depends on you. I hate you to be rough."

"God knows I've had enough to make me. You wear me out, you're so damned
superior."

"I'm afraid that's not my fault!"

He swore under his breath. "At it again!"

"Oh, dear!" she cried, "that was meant to be a joke! I thought it rather
good! Shall I make some coffee? They say a wise woman always has good
things for her--for a man to eat and drink. I'm going to try it."

They drank in silence, but as he put down his cup, she said, twinkling
over hers, "Was I a wise woman?" and suddenly she felt the great
loneliness of the house, and remembered that she was a woman, and this
man's wife. She looked down that he might see no change. He did not
answer, and the coals, dropping in the grate, were like little tongues
clicking in distress. She wondered if he were ever going to speak.

"Give me your cup," she heard him say, and his voice was confident. She
felt a hand put firmly on her shoulder, and she saw him bending over
her.

"Good-night," he said, "I'm going," and still with that hand on her, he
kissed her mouth.

She did not move when the door was shut behind him: she leaned back in
the chair, pressed there by his kiss, her hands limp in her lap. She
respected him at last. There had been dignity in that kiss, and she
thought it better that he should take what he desired than sit too
humble under her gaze, but she knew she was no longer what she had been.
He had, in some manner, made her partly his: not by the spirit, not by
her will, but by taking something from her: there was more to take, and
she was sure now that he would take it. She was not angry, but for a
long time she cried quietly in her chair.

CHAPTER XXXII

Snow was falling when Zebedee at last drove up the road, and from the
window of Mildred Caniper's bedroom Helen watched his huddled figure and
the striving horse. She saw him look for the