startlingly, she was weeping. Her head was bent forward, and her thin shoulders were shaking. Only the horrid vision of an embrace as Bleeker's way of comforting her kept him from putting his arms around her. And then she was suddenly on her feet again, striding rapidly back and forth across the gallery. Her voice was angry, cutting.
"My life is so ... abject! So unutterably abject. What in God's name am I to
do?
It's all very well for you to lecture me about morality, but what do you do to help me? You talk about respectable people slamming doors in my face, but isn't that just what you're doing? Why should it matter to me whether they slam them in New York or in Venice? All I know is that that's what doors seem to be for!"
Dexter rose and held his arms out to her pleadingly. "Annie, listen to me. You have a mind. A beautiful mind. You've studied art and music. You've traveled in Europe. Just now you compared me to a Gothic tympanum. How many women in New York would even know what a Gothic tympanum is? Doesn't the life of the intellect offer you
any
satisfaction? You used to be a great reader."
"So that's what good people do? They read! And what do you suppose they read about? What the bad people are doing!" When he looked blank at this, she continued indignantly, "Well, isn't that what all those books were about that you used to give me?
Jane Eyre
and
Wuthering Heights
and
The Scarlet Letter?
Passion and adultery and bigamy?"
"But those novels all point out the disastrous effects of those things!"
"But the disasters come
after.
Maybe the passion was worth it."
Dexter stared at her in dismay. "Surely you don't mean that you have really so misconstrued those writers as to suggest that...?"
"Let me change the target." Annie had no idea of being trapped in a literary debate. "Do books and art and music mean that much to
you
? Do Harriet Beecher Stowe and the Italian opera make up to you for the dullness of your life with Rosalie?"
Dexter turned away quickly. He did not even know quite whom he was protecting by hiding the pain that he knew must be showing in his face: Rosalie, himself or even Annie. All he was sure of was that it was somehow not to be borne that his life with Rosalie should be described in that way.
"Oh, Dexter, now I've hurt you! I didn't really mean to. But you put me in a position where I have no alternative. I
have
to make you see these things! You can put up with dullness at home because your real life is in your law office.
That
is where you live and breathe and have your being. But we poor wives don't have that. Rosalie and Jo are always talking about what miserable lives the slaves have down South, but they can't see that they're slaves themselves." Now she took him by the elbow and turned him around to face her, so that he should see her mimic him as a lawyer. She coughed and frowned as she pretended to be studying a paper. " 'Let's see. What have we on the diary this morning, Miss Somers? Oh, yes, the Annie Fairchild matter. I'd better run up and see the little woman and put some sense in her head. This is not the kind of thing we care to see in court, is it?'"
He gripped her hands in his. "Do you think I see you as a case, Annie? Can you honestly look me in the eye and tell me that I see you as just a case?"
She broke away from him, shrugging impatiently, and walked to one of the two west windows. After a few minutes of looking down at the avenue, she turned to him with an air of embittered resolution.
"Very well, Dexter, I see it's no use. You're determined to win. I am not to be allowed to go on with my harmless flirtation. I am embarrassed to call it even that. So be it. Have it your way. But mind you, you will have to make it up to me!
You
will be responsible for seeing that I don't die of boredom."
"Oh, we'll see to that!" he exclaimed, exultant.
"We? I mean
you!
"
"All right, me. May I instruct Mr. Bleeker that I shall be representing you?"
For once he had surprised her. "You mean
"My life is so ... abject! So unutterably abject. What in God's name am I to
do?
It's all very well for you to lecture me about morality, but what do you do to help me? You talk about respectable people slamming doors in my face, but isn't that just what you're doing? Why should it matter to me whether they slam them in New York or in Venice? All I know is that that's what doors seem to be for!"
Dexter rose and held his arms out to her pleadingly. "Annie, listen to me. You have a mind. A beautiful mind. You've studied art and music. You've traveled in Europe. Just now you compared me to a Gothic tympanum. How many women in New York would even know what a Gothic tympanum is? Doesn't the life of the intellect offer you
any
satisfaction? You used to be a great reader."
"So that's what good people do? They read! And what do you suppose they read about? What the bad people are doing!" When he looked blank at this, she continued indignantly, "Well, isn't that what all those books were about that you used to give me?
Jane Eyre
and
Wuthering Heights
and
The Scarlet Letter?
Passion and adultery and bigamy?"
"But those novels all point out the disastrous effects of those things!"
"But the disasters come
after.
Maybe the passion was worth it."
Dexter stared at her in dismay. "Surely you don't mean that you have really so misconstrued those writers as to suggest that...?"
"Let me change the target." Annie had no idea of being trapped in a literary debate. "Do books and art and music mean that much to
you
? Do Harriet Beecher Stowe and the Italian opera make up to you for the dullness of your life with Rosalie?"
Dexter turned away quickly. He did not even know quite whom he was protecting by hiding the pain that he knew must be showing in his face: Rosalie, himself or even Annie. All he was sure of was that it was somehow not to be borne that his life with Rosalie should be described in that way.
"Oh, Dexter, now I've hurt you! I didn't really mean to. But you put me in a position where I have no alternative. I
have
to make you see these things! You can put up with dullness at home because your real life is in your law office.
That
is where you live and breathe and have your being. But we poor wives don't have that. Rosalie and Jo are always talking about what miserable lives the slaves have down South, but they can't see that they're slaves themselves." Now she took him by the elbow and turned him around to face her, so that he should see her mimic him as a lawyer. She coughed and frowned as she pretended to be studying a paper. " 'Let's see. What have we on the diary this morning, Miss Somers? Oh, yes, the Annie Fairchild matter. I'd better run up and see the little woman and put some sense in her head. This is not the kind of thing we care to see in court, is it?'"
He gripped her hands in his. "Do you think I see you as a case, Annie? Can you honestly look me in the eye and tell me that I see you as just a case?"
She broke away from him, shrugging impatiently, and walked to one of the two west windows. After a few minutes of looking down at the avenue, she turned to him with an air of embittered resolution.
"Very well, Dexter, I see it's no use. You're determined to win. I am not to be allowed to go on with my harmless flirtation. I am embarrassed to call it even that. So be it. Have it your way. But mind you, you will have to make it up to me!
You
will be responsible for seeing that I don't die of boredom."
"Oh, we'll see to that!" he exclaimed, exultant.
"We? I mean
you!
"
"All right, me. May I instruct Mr. Bleeker that I shall be representing you?"
For once he had surprised her. "You mean
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