"Will you go to the races again?" he asked.
"No," she said. "I've had enough of the races. I don't want to lose all
the money I've won, and I've got to work when the weather is bright,
instead of--"
"Yes; work; to be sure. You promised to show me your work. What morning
may I come up to your atelier? To-morrow?"
"No!"
"Day after?"
"No, no."
"Oh, please don't refuse me! I know something of such things. I might
help you with a stray suggestion or two."
"No. Good night. Why don't you go after you have said good night? I
don't like you," she went on in a high, excited pitch, attempting
to draw away her hand. She felt that her words lacked dignity and
sincerity, and she knew that he felt it.
"I'm sorry you don't like me. I'm sorry I offended you. How have I
offended you? What have I done? Can't you forgive me?" And he bent and
pressed his lips upon her hand as if he wished never more to withdraw
them.
"Mr. Arobin," she complained, "I'm greatly upset by the excitement of
the afternoon; I'm not myself. My manner must have misled you in some
way. I wish you to go, please." She spoke in a monotonous, dull tone.
He took his hat from the table, and stood with eyes turned from her,
looking into the dying fire. For a moment or two he kept an impressive
silence.
"Your manner has not misled me, Mrs. Pontellier," he said finally. "My
own emotions have done that. I couldn't help it. When I'm near you, how
could I help it? Don't think anything of it, don't bother, please. You
see, I go when you command me. If you wish me to stay away, I shall do
so. If you let me come back, I--oh! you will let me come back?"
He cast one appealing glance at her, to which she made no response.
Alcee Arobin's manner was so genuine that it often deceived even
himself.
Edna did not care or think whether it were genuine or not. When she
was alone she looked mechanically at the back of her hand which he had
kissed so warmly. Then she leaned her head down on the mantelpiece. She
felt somewhat like a woman who in a moment of passion is betrayed into
an act of infidelity, and realizes the significance of the act without
being wholly awakened from its glamour. The thought was passing vaguely
through her mind, "What would he think?"
She did not mean her husband; she was thinking of Robert Lebrun. Her
husband seemed to her now like a person whom she had married without
love as an excuse.