"Mean what?"
"All my plans--my year's work--and such a beautiful house and place I'll
make." She started up, clasped her hands round his arm. "O Dick--don't
be narrow--and so distrustful of me. I know I can do it. Let me show
you my plans--my sketches----"
He took her hands, and said with gentle, firm earnestness, for he was
ashamed of having lost his temper with a woman: "Courtney, I cannot have
it. I will not let you disturb the place my grandfather gave his best
thought to."
"But you don't like it, dear," she pleaded.
"I respect my grandfather's memory."
"But on our wedding trip you said----"
"Now, don't argue with me!"
"It's because you think I couldn't do it?"
"I know you couldn't--if you must have the truth."
"Let me show you my sketches and paintings," she pleaded, in a queer
kind of quiet hysteria. "Let me explain my plans. I'm sure you'll----"
"Now, Courtney! I've told you my decision. I want to hear no more
about it."
She looked up into his face searchingly. He was like the portrait of
his unbending grandfather that made the library uncomfortable. Her arms
fell to her sides. She went to the balcony rail, gazed out into the
black masses of foliage. Taken completely by surprise, she could not at
once realize any part, much less all, of what those words of his
involved; but she felt in her heart the chill of a great fear--the fear
of what she would think, of what she would know, when she did realize.
His voice interrupted. "While you're on the unpleasant subject of these
notions of yours," he said, with an attempt at lightness in his
embarrassed tone, "we might as well finish it--get it out of the way
forever. I want you to stop thinking about the laboratory."
She turned, swift as a swallow.
"I admit I've been at fault--encouraging you to imagine I'd consent.
But I thought you'd forget about it. Apparently you haven't."
A long silence.
"I repeat, I'm sorry I misled you. It seemed to me a trifling
deception."
She did not speak, did not move.
"When you think it over, you'll see that I'm right--that we're much
happier as we are."
After a long silence, which somehow alarmed him, though he told himself
such a feeling was absurd, she crossed the balcony to the window. As
she paused there, not looking toward him, the profile of those sweet,
irregular features of hers stood out clearly. That expression, though
it was quiet, increased his absurd alarm. "It's getting late," she
said, and her tone was gentle, apologetic. "I think I'll go in."
"Are you angry, Courtney?"
"No," she replied. "I don't think so."
"Why are you silent?"
"I don't know," she said slowly. "I seem to have stopped inside."
He went and put his arms round her. She was passive as a doll. "Why,
you're quite cold, child!"
"I must go in. Good night."
"I'll join you in a few minutes."