THE QUARREL
"The other day," said Sylvia, "you were perfectly sweet to me. I was
really happy; I knew you loved me, and that was quite enough. Now again
I feel that miserable doubtfulness."
"May I ask," said Woodville, who was sitting in front of a pile of
papers, while Sylvia was leaning her head on her hand opposite him at
the table, "how it is that you're here again?"
He spoke in a tone that was carefully not affectionate and that he tried
not to make irritable.
"Certainly. I arranged to go out with Felicity--before papa--and then I
telephoned to her that I had a headache."
"Isn't that what you did on Thursday?"
"No; on Thursday I said I was going to the dentist. And came in here
instead."
"Do you intend to do this often?" he asked.
"Yes, continually."
He rustled the papers.
"Why shouldn't I? Don't you like it?" she said.
"I can't help thinking it's rather risky. Suppose Felicity comes and
finds you in blooming health?"
"Surely I can recover from my headache if I like? Besides, she
telephoned to me to get some aspirin. She won't expect me to be down
till this afternoon, and she won't come till then."
"_Did_ you get some?"
"Frank, what idiotic questions you ask!"
There was a pause.
"Don't you think, dear," she said, "this is very jolly, to arrange to
have two hours like this alone together?"
"Oh, delightful! But I don't see what's the good of it, as we're
placed."
"Not to have a nice quiet talk?"
"I have nothing to talk about." He seemed nervous.
"Are you going to be like this when we're married?" asked Sylvia in a
disappointed voice.
"Not at all!"
"Oh, I'm _so_ glad! If you'll excuse my saying so, Frank darling, you
seem to me to have a rather sulky disposition."
He seized the papers and threw them on the floor.
"Sulky? _I, sulky?_ You never made a greater mistake. You're not a good
judge of character, Sylvia. Don't go in for it. Leave it alone. You'll
never make anything of it, you haven't the gift. As it happens, I have a
very good temper, except that now and then I'm 'rather violent when
roused,' as the palmists say, but sulky--never!"
Sylvia seemed to have made up her mind to be irritating. She laughed a
good deal. (She looked most lovely when laughing.)
"What are you laughing at?" he asked.
"At you. Pretending to be violent, good-tempered. Of course you're
neither. What you think is self-control is merely sulkiness."
His eyes flashed.
"What do you want?" he said, in an undertone.
"Why, I want you to be sensible and jolly; like you were that day at
Richmond."
"How can I be like I was that day at Richmond? It was a lovely day; we
were in the country; it was our escapade. It was an exceptional case."
"Oh dear! Then will you only be _like that_ as an exceptional case?"
"My dear child, you don't understand. When a man has--has work to do,"
he said rather hesitatingly.
She laughed again.
"Work! It must be frightfully important work if you throw it on the
floor from temper."
He bore this well, and answered, picking up the papers, "Important or
not, it's what I'm here for--it's what your father pays me for. How on
earth he can think I'm the slightest use to him I can't imagine."
"Oh, he knows you're not, really, dear," said Sylvia soothingly. "But
he's grown used to you, and to have a secretary makes him feel he's a
sort of important public man. Don't you see?"
"What! I'm _not_ useful to him?" Woodville asked angrily. "I should like
to know----" Here he stopped.
"I suppose you think he won't know what to do without you when we're
married," said Sylvia.
"Oh, I do wish you'd leave off saying that, Sylvia."
"Saying what?"
"When we're married. You have no idea how irritating you are, darling."
"Irritating? Oh dear, Frank, I'm so sorry. Do forgive me. Perhaps it is
rather bad taste, but I say it to cheer you up, to remind you you have
something to look forward to. Do you see?"
She looked at him sweetly, but he would not meet her eyes.
"Perhaps you're _not_ looking forward to it?" she said in a piqued
voice.
"Sylvia, would you mind going away?"
"Oh, all right. Very well. I won't disturb you any more. It's very sweet
and conscientious of you to bother about the papers. I'll go. Shan't you
want me always with you when we're married?"
"Never!" he answered. "At least, not if I have any other occupation."
Her eyes brightened.
"Oh! then it isn't that I worry you, but I sort of distract your
attention. Is that it?"
He made no answer.
"I'm afraid," said Sylvia sadly, "that we shall quarrel dreadfully."
"Quarrel? Rot!" said Woodville. "We shall _never_ quarrel. You'll do
exactly what I tell you--and I shall devote myself to doing everything
for your good."
"If I thought you meant anything as dull as that I should break it off
at once," said Sylvia. "The programme doesn't sound attractive."
He laughed. "How do you think it ought to be then?"
"There'll be only one will between us," said Sylvia, "that is to say,
you'll do everything I want always, Frank. Do you hear? Won't you
answer? Well, I see you're in a bad temper." She got up. "Good-bye." She
held out her hand. "I shall hardly see you again all day, and Frank----I
see you don't want to kiss me once before I go."
"Oh, you see that, do you?"
"Of course, I think you're an ideal man and a darling in every way, and
I love you very much, but I think it's a pity you're so cold and
heartless." She came nearer to him.
"Don't say that again," he said, with a rather dangerous look.
"But you are! You're absolutely cold. I think you only love me as a
duty."
At this Woodville seemed to lose his head. He seized her in his arms and
kissed her roughly and at random, holding her close to him.
"Oh don't, Frank. How can you be so horrid? You're making my hair
untidy. Oh, Frank!"
When he at last released her, he walked to the window and looked out.
She went to the looking-glass with tears in her eyes, and arranged her
hair.
"I didn't think," she said reproachfully, "that you could behave like
that, Frank!"
He made no reply.
As she stood at the door she said, pouting, "You didn't seem to care
whether _I_ liked it or not."
"And I didn't!" said Woodville. "I wasn't thinking about what you'd
like."
"And--shan't you ever think about what I'd like?"
"Oh, I shall think a great deal about what you'd like," said Woodville,
"and I shall see that you like it. But that will be different. I don't
apologise; you brought it on yourself."
"I'll try to forgive you," said Sylvia. "But now, I really _have_ a
headache."
"Take some aspirin," said Woodville.
"How peculiar you are! Then I'm not to come in to-morrow morning?"
"Do as you like; you know what to expect."
"Why, you don't mean to say you would behave like that _again_?"
"I shall make it a rule," he answered.
"It's unkind of you to say that, because now you know I _can't_ come."
"This sort of thing is becoming impossible," said Woodville. "You make
it worse for me."
"I'm sorry," she said gently. "I assure you it wasn't what I wanted,
really."
"I dare say not. But you don't understand."
"Will you promise never to break the compact again?" said Sylvia,
looking up at him sweetly.
"Will you go?" he answered in a low voice.
This time she went.