She was set down again, inwardly swaying, apparently unmoved, but
conscious of the carpet under her feet, the chairs with twisted legs,
the primrose curtains, the spring afternoon outside.
'Let us have tea,' she said. She handled the pretty flowered cups and
under her astonished eyes the painted flowers were like a little
garden, gay and sweet and gilded. She seemed to smell them and the
hiss of the kettle was like a song. Then, as she handed him his cup
and looked into his wretched face and remembered the bitter reality of
things, she still could not lose all sense of sweetness.
'Don't say any more!' she said quickly. 'Don't say another word.'
'I won't, if you're sure you know everything. Do you?'
'Every single thing.'
'And you care?'
'Yes.' She drew a breath. 'I care--beyond speaking of it. Francis, not
a word!'
It was extraordinary, it was inexplicable, but it was true and happily
beyond the region of regrets, for if she had married him years ago she
would never have loved him in this miraculous, sudden way, with this
passion of tenderness, this desire to make him happy, this terrible
conviction that she could not do it, this promise of suffering for
herself. And the wonder of it was that he had no likeness to that
absurd Francis of whom she had dreamed and whom she had not loved; no
likeness, either, to the colossal tyrant. The man she loved was in
some ways weak, he was petulant, he was a baby, but he needed her and,
for a romantic and sentimental moment, she saw herself as his refuge,
his strength.
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