“Can't write ‘Reuben Hallard’ old boy . . .” and so, with a laugh, they parted.
In the cab, afterwards, Clare's head was buried in Peter' coat, and she sobbed her heart out. “How I could have been such a beast, Peter, Peter!”
“Darling, it was nothing.”
“Oh, but it was! It shall never, never happen again . . . but I was frightened—”
“Frightened!”
“Yes, I always think some one's going to take you away. I don't understand all those other people. They frighten me—I want you to myself, just you and I—always.”
“But nobody can take me away—nobody—”
The cab jolted along—her hand was on his knee—and every now and again a lamp lighted her face for him and then dropped it back into darkness.
By the sharp pressure of her hand he knew that she was moved by an intensity of feeling, swayed now by one of those moods that came to her so strangely that it seemed that they belonged to another personality.
“Look . . . Peter. I'm seeing clearly as I think I never have before. I'm afraid—not because of you—but because of myself. If you knew—” here his hand came down and found hers—“if you knew how I despise myself, my real self. I've been spoilt always, always, always. I've always known it. My real self is ashamed of it. But there's another side of me that comes down suddenly and hides all that—and then—when that happens—I just want to get what I want and not to be hurt and . . .” she pressed closer against him and went on in a whisper.
“Peter, I shall always care for you more than any one—always whatever happens. But think, a time will come—I know it—when you'll have to watch me, to keep me by you, and even let your work go—everything, just for a time until I'm safe. I suppose that moment comes to most women in their married lives. But to me, when it happens, it will be worse than for most women because I've always had my way. You mustn't let me have my way then—simply clutch me, be cruel, brutal, anything only don't let
