“He’s getting better. I went to see him yesterday—the doctor told me.”
Clara seemed stricken by the news.
“Is he very bad?” she asked guiltily.
“He has been. He’s mending now.”
“What did he say to you?”
“Oh, nothing! He seems to be sulking.”
There was a distance between the two of them. He gave her more information.
She went about shut up and silent. The next time they took a walk together, she disengaged herself from his arm, and walked at a distance from him. He was wanting her comfort badly.
“Won’t you be nice with me?” he asked.
She did not answer.
“What’s the matter?” he said, putting his arm across her shoulder.
“Don’t!” she said, disengaging herself.
He left her alone, and returned to his own brooding.
“Is it Baxter that upsets you?” he asked at length.
“I have been vile to him!” she said.
“I’ve said many a time you haven’t treated him well,” he replied.
And there was a hostility between them. Each pursued his own train of thought.
“I’ve treated him—no, I’ve treated him badly,” she said. “And now you treat me badly. It serves me right.”
“How do I treat you badly?” he said.
“It serves me right,” she repeated. “I never considered him worth having, and now you don’t consider me. But it serves me right. He loved me a thousand times better than you ever did.”
“He didn’t!” protested Paul.
“He did! At any rate, he did respect me, and that’s what you don’t do.”
“It looked as if he respected you!” he said.
“He did! And I made him horrid—I know I did! You’ve taught me that. And he loved me a thousand times better than ever you do.”
“All right,” said Paul.
He only wanted to be left alone now. He had his own trouble, which was almost too much to bear. Clara only tormented him and made him tired. He was not sorry when he left her.
