“If you wear that grubby skirt when you call on her I don’t suppose she does,” said Maxim.
“Of course I didn’t call on her in my old skirt, I wore a frock,” I said, “and anyway I don’t think much of people who just judge one by one’s clothes.”
“I hardly think the bishop’s wife cares twopence about clothes,” said Maxim, “but she may have been rather surprised if you sat on the extreme edge of the chair and answered ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ like someone after a new job, which you did the only time we returned a call together.”
“I can’t help being shy.”
“I know you can’t, sweetheart. But you don’t make an effort to conquer it.”
“I think that’s very unfair,” I said. “I try every day, every time I go out or meet anyone new. I’m always making efforts. You don’t understand. It’s all very well for you, you’re used to that sort of thing. I’ve not been brought up to it.”
“Rot,” said Maxim; “it’s not a question of bringing up, as you put it. It’s a matter of application. You don’t think I like calling on people, do you? It bores me stiff. But it has to be done, in this part of the world.”
“We’re not talking about boredom,” I said; “there’s nothing to be afraid of in being bored. If I was just bored it would be different. I hate people looking me up and down as though I were a prize cow.”
“Who looks you up and down?”
“All the people down here. Everybody.”
“What does it matter if they do? It gives them some interest in life.”
“Why must I be the one to supply the interest, and have all the criticism?”
“Because life at Manderley is the only thing that ever interests anybody down here.”
“What a slap in the eye I must be to them then.”
Maxim did not answer. He went on looking at his paper.
“What a slap in the eye I must be to them,” I repeated. And then, “I suppose that’s why you married me,” I said; “you knew I was dull and quiet and inexperienced, so that there would never be any gossip about me.”
Maxim threw his paper on the ground and got up from his chair. “What do you mean?” he said.
His face was dark and queer, and his voice was rough, not his voice at all.
“I—I don’t know,” I said, leaning back against the window, “I don’t mean anything. Why do you look like that?”
“What do you know about any gossip down here?” he said.
“I don’t,” I said, scared by the way he looked at me. “I only said it because—because of something to say. Don’t look at me like that. Maxim, what have I said? what’s the matter?”
“Who’s been talking to you,” he said slowly.
“No one. No one at all.”
“Why did you say what you did?”
“I tell you, I don’t know. It just came to my head. I was angry, cross. I do hate calling on these people. I can’t help it. And you criticized me for being shy. I didn’t mean it. Really, Maxim, I didn’t. Please believe me.”
“It was not a particularly attractive thing to say, was it?” he said.
“No,” I said. “No, it was rude, hateful.”
He stared at me moodily, his hands in his pockets, rocking backwards and forwards on his heels. “I wonder if I did a very selfish thing in marrying you,” he said. He spoke slowly, thoughtfully.
I felt very cold, rather sick. “How do you mean?” I said.
“I’m not much of a companion to you, am I?” he said. “There are too many years between us. You ought to have waited, and then married a boy of your own age. Not someone like myself, with half his life behind him.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said hurriedly, “you know age doesn’t mean anything in marriage. Of course we are companions.”
“Are we? I don’t know,” he said.
I knelt up on the window seat and put my arms round his shoulders. “Why do you say these things to me?” I said; “you know I love you more than anything in the world. There has never been anyone but you. You are my father and my brother and my son. All those things.”
“It was my fault,” he said, not listening. “I rushed you into it. I never gave you a chance to think it over.”
“I did not want to think it over,” I said, “there was no other choice. You don’t understand, Maxim. When one loves a person…”