Yet to say that would place him in a damnable
light, give him the aspect of the meanest opportunist. Susan breathed,
"That poor woman." It was precisely what he had expected, feared--the
adventitious illusion! He had an impulse to describe to her, even at the
price of his own condemnation, the condition in which he had found
Eunice; but that too perished silently. Jasper Penny grew restive under
the unusual restraint of his position.
"Do you mind--no more at present." Susan Brundon said. "I am upset;
please, another time; if it is necessary. I feel that I couldn't answer
anything now, I must go up; no, your mother will show me." She rose, and
he realized that she would listen no further. There was an astonishing
strength of purpose behind her deprecating presence. She was more
determined than himself. He watched her walk evenly from the room, heard
the low stir of voices beyond, with a feeling that he had been perhaps
fatally clumsy. All that he had said had been wrong, brutally selfish.
He had deliberately invited failure; he should have been patient,
waited; given her a chance to know and, if possible, value him, come to
depend on him, on his judgment, his ability in her welfare. But, in
place of making himself a necessity, he had launched at once into facts
which she must find hideous.
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