For him, the sting was gone, because, at the first
prick, Julia was there to take it and bear it. No need to conceal from
her now the bitterness of his moods; she would meet him halfway. He was
worrying about that old affair? Ah, he mustn't do that--here were
Julia's arms about him, her lovely face close to his, her sweet and
earnest sympathy ready to probe bravely into his darkest thought, and
find him some balm. Still gowned from a ball, perhaps, jewelled,
perfumed, dragging her satin train after her, she would come straight
into his arms, with: "Something's worrying you, dearest, tell me what it
is? I _love_ you so--"
No resentment on Jim's part could live for a moment in this atmosphere.
He only wanted to tell her about it, to be soothed like a small boy, to
catch his beautiful wife in his arms, and win from her lips again and
again the assurance that she loved him and him alone. What these scenes
cost Julia's own fine sense of delicacy and dignity, only Julia knew.
They left her with a vague feeling of shame, a consciousness of
compromise. For a day or two after such an episode a new hesitancy would
mark her manner, a certain lack of confidence lend pathos to the
sweetness of her voice.
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