Ashes of resentment still smouldered against Martin because of
that failure of his to play fair. She recalled the years during
which she had helped him to earn with never an unexpected
pleasure; reflected with bitterness that never, since they had
cast their lives together, had he urged her to indulge in any
sweet little extravagance, though he had denied himself nothing
that he really wished. It was no riddle to her, as it had been to
her niece earlier in the evening, why the same hard work had
dealt so benignly with Martin and so uncharitably with herself.
She comprehended only too well that it was not that alone which
had crushed her. It was his ceaseless domination over her, the
utter subjugation of her will, her complete lack of freedom. She
glanced across the table at him, astounded by his hearty laugh in
response to one of Rose's sallies. It seemed incredible that it
could be really Martin's. It had such a ring and came out so
easily as if he were more inclined to merriment than to silence.
Usually, he seemed made of long strips of thin steel, but under
the inspiration of Rose's presence he had become animated, brisk,
interesting. No wonder she was being drawn to him.

It was as if he had withheld from his wife a secret alchemy that
had kept him handsome and attractive, as compelling as when he
had come in search of herself so long ago. And now that the last
vestige of her own bloom was gone, he was laughing at her,
inwardly, as a cunning person does who plays a malicious trick on
a simpler, more trusting, soul. Only it had taken twenty years to
spring the point of this one. Hatred welled in her heart; a sad,
weary hatred that knew no tears. She wished that she might hurt
him as he had hurt her. Yet, with her usual honesty, she
presently admitted how easy it would be for this malevolence to