She came close up to him.
"Look here, Paul. There is something the matter. We haven't been
married a fortnight yet and you're unhappy. Whatever else we married
for we married because we were going to be friends. So you've just
got to tell me what the trouble is."
"I've got my sermon to prepare," he said, not looking at her, but
half rising in his chair. "You'd better go, darling."
"I'm not going to," she answered, "until you've told me why you're
worrying."
He got up slowly and seemed then as though he were going to pass
her. Suddenly he turned, flung his arms round her, catching her,
crushing her in his arms, kissing her wildly.
"Love . . . love me . . . love me," he whispered. "That's what's the
matter. I didn't know myself before I married you, Maggie. All these
years I've lived like a fish and I didn't know it. But I know it
now. And you've got to love me. You're my wife and you've got to
love me."
She would have given everything that she had then to respond. She
felt an infinite tenderness and pity for him. But she could not. He
felt that she could not. He let her go and turned away from her.
Pages:
604
605
606
607
608
609
610
611
612
613
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628