Maggie tossed her head, and Edwin knew that when she tossed her head--a
gesture rare with her--she was tossing the tears back from her eyes. He
was more than startled, he was intimidated, by that feminine movement of
the head. She was hurt. It was absurd of her to be so susceptible, but
he had undoubtedly hurt her. He had been clumsy enough to hurt her.
She was nearing forty, and he also was close behind her on the road to
forty; she was a perfectly decent sort, and he reckoned that he, too,
was a perfectly decent sort, and yet they lacked the skill not to
bicker. They no longer had the somewhat noisy altercations of old days
concerning real or fancied interferences with the order and privacy of
Edwin's sacred chamber, but their general demeanour to one another had
dully soured. It was as if they tolerated one another, from motives of
self-interest. Why should this be so? They were, at bottom,
affectionate and mutually respectful. In a crisis they could and would
rely on one another utterly. Why should their demeanour be so false an
index to their real feelings? He supposed it was just the fault of
loose habit. He did not blame her. From mere pride he blamed himself.
He knew himself to be cleverer, more perceptive, wilier, than she; and
he ought to have been able to muster the diplomatic skill necessary for
smooth and felicitous intercourse. Any friction, whether due to her
stupidity or not, was a proof of his incompetence in the art of life...
"Everybody notices it!" The phrase pricked him. An exaggeration, of
course! Still, a phrase that would not be dismissed by a superior curl
of the lips. Maggie was not Clara, and she did not invent allegations.
His fault! Yes, his fault! Beyond doubt he was occasionally gruff, he
was churlish, he was porcupinish. He did not mean to be so--indeed he
most honestly meant not to be so--but he was. He must change. He must
turn over a new leaf. He wished it had been his own birthday, or,
better still, the New Year, instead of his auntie's birthday, so that he
might have turned over a new leaf at once with due solemnity. He
actually remembered a pious saw uttered over twenty years earlier by
that wretch in a white tie who had damnably devised the Saturday
afternoon Bible-class, a saw which he furiously scorned--"Every day
begins a New Year." Well, every day did begin a New Year! So did every
minute. Why not begin a New Year then, in that minute? He had only to
say in a cajoling, good-natured tone, "All right, all right! Keep your
hair on, my child. I grovel!" He had only to say some such words, and
the excellent, simple, unresentful Maggie would at once be appeased. It
would be a demonstration of his moral strength to say them.
But he could not say them.
------------------------------------------------------------------------