He now understood her interest in Taber, as he called himself: habit, a twice-told tale. He had plugged along, if not happy, at least with sound philosophy. The lamp was not yet lit, and in the dim light he bent forward as though trying to look into her averted face. Instead had come this storm, this shouting, this weeping, this confusion of threats and irrelevant appeals. As a net result she had come to think of all married people much as one thinks of insects that have lost their wings, and of her sisters as new hatched creatures who had scarcely for a moment had wings. “What have I done, Miss Pellissier?” he pleaded. If it was not an actual personal lover, it still might be the lover not yet incarnate, not yet perhaps suspected. ‘Never trust a gun in female hands,’ grumbled Hilary, dropping the nun’s habit and backing to join his friend. ‘Lord in heaven, did I do that?’ exclaimed Gerald remorsefully.
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