She did it out of pique, or
pride, or impulse, or whatever it is that sways women in such cases.
She was angry, or indignant--how like fire and ice at once she was when
she was angry!--and she was resolved to show me that she could do
without me. She would not listen to my explanations; and I was always
awkward and stiff about making explanations. Besides, it was not an
easy matter to explain, especially to a girl like her. With a married
woman or a widow it would have been a simple thing enough. But Ethel
Leigh, the minister's daughter--innocent, ignorant, passionate--she would
tolerate nothing short of a public disavowal and discontinuance of my
relations with Mrs. Murray, and that, of course, I could not consent to,
though heaven knows (and so must Ethel, by this time) that Mrs. Murray was
nothing to me save as she was the wife of my friend, during whose
enforced absence I was bound to look after her, to some extent. It was
not my fault that poor Mrs. Murray was a fool. But such are the
trumpery seeds from which tragedies grow. Not that ours was a tragedy,
exactly: Ethel married her English admirer, and I became a somewhat
distinguished artist, that is all.
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