‘Yet even with Mr. Bevis,’ she said at length, ’you don’t make friends.  That is the fault in you which causes all this trouble.  You haven’t a sociable spirit.  Your dislike of Mr. Barfoot only means that you don’t know him, and don’t wish to.  And you are completely wrong in your judgment of him.  I have every reason for being sure that you are wrong.’

‘Of course you think so.  In your ignorance of the world—­’

‘Which you think very proper in a woman,’ she interposed caustically.

‘Yes, I do!  That kind of knowledge is harmful to a woman.’

‘Then, please, how is she to judge her acquaintances?’

’A married woman must accept her husband’s opinion, at all events about men.’  He plunged on into the ancient quagmire.  ’A man may know with impunity what is injurious if it enters a woman’s mind.’

‘I don’t believe that.  I can’t and won’t believe it.’

He made a gesture of despair.

’We differ hopelessly.  It was all very well to discuss these things when you could do so in a friendly spirit.  Now you say whatever you know will irritate me, and you say it on purpose to irritate me.’

’No; indeed I do not.  But you are quite right that I find it hard to be friendly with you.  Most earnestly I wish to be your friend—­ your true and faithful friend.  But you won’t let me.’

‘Friend!’ he cried scornfully.  ’The woman who has become my wife ought to be something more than a friend, I should think.  You have lost all love for me—­there’s the misery.’

Monica could not reply.  That word ‘love’ had grown a weariness to her upon his lips.  She did not love him; could not pretend to love him.  Every day the distance between them widened, and when he took her in his arms she had to struggle with a sense of shrinking, of disgust.  The union was unnatural; she felt herself constrained by a hateful force when he called upon her for the show of wifely tenderness.  Yet how was she to utter this?  The moment such a truth had passed her lips she must leave him.  To declare that no trace of love remained in her heart, and still to live with him—­that was impossible!  The dark foresight of a necessity of parting from him corresponded in her to those lurid visions which at times shook Widdowson with a horrible temptation.

‘You don’t love me,’ he continued in harsh, choking tones.  ’You wish to be my friend.  That’s how you try to compensate me for the loss of your love.’

He laughed with bitterness.

‘When you say that,’ Monica answered, ’do you ever ask yourself whether you try to make me love you?  Scenes like this are ruining my health.  I have come to dread your talk.  I have almost forgotten the sound of your voice when it isn’t either angry or complaining.’

Widdowson walked about the room, and a deep moan escaped him.

’That is why I have asked you to go away from here, Monica.  We must have a new home if our life is to begin anew.’