"You know why, too, if you stop to think. I'm
the same old Jack Fyfe, Stella. I don't think much where you are
concerned; I just feel. And that doesn't lend itself readily to
impersonal chatter."
"How do you feel?" she asked, meeting his gaze squarely. "If you don't
hate me, you must at least rather despise me."
"Neither," he said slowly. "I admire your grit, lady. You broke away
from everything and made a fresh start. You asserted your own
individuality in a fashion that rather surprised me. Maybe the incentive
wasn't what it might have been, but the result is, or promises to be. I
was only a milestone. Why should I hate or despise you because you
recognized that and passed on? I had no business setting myself up for
the end of your road instead of the beginning. I meant to have it that
way until the kid--well, Fate took a hand there. Pshaw," he broke off
with a quick gesture, "let's talk about something else."
Stella laid one hand on his knee. Unbidden tears were crowding up in her
gray eyes.
"You were good to me," she whispered. "But just being good wasn't
enough for a perverse creature like me. I couldn't be a sleek pussy-cat,
comfortable beside your fire. I'm full of queer longings. I want wings.
I must be a variation from the normal type of woman. Our marriage didn't
touch the real me at all, Jack. It only scratched the surface. And
sometimes I'm afraid to look deep, for fear of what I'll see. Even if
another man hadn't come along and stirred up a temporary tumult in me, I
couldn't have gone on forever.
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