“All I understand is that you ruined his life, and drove him to a dreadful death,” I burst out. I had not meant to go so far, but I was too angry to think what I was saying.
“What do you mean?” she said. “Oh, no—you can’t think that he—But why should he?”
I had gone too far now to retreat, and I told her what I thought.
“You are quite wrong,” she said. “He wouldn’t have done that.”
“He would have done anything for you,” I cried angrily, “anything. Even to laying down his life to set you free—”
“Even to sacrificing his reputation as a connoisseur of fungi?” she interrupted, with an unpleasant smile.
“Even that,” I answered. “It’s all very well for you to sneer—you never cared for his interests—you didn’t understand them—you understand nothing at all, and you care for nothing except your twopenny ha’penny emotions.”
“I do know this,” she said steadily, “that if your father had thought that I wanted to be free of him—which he didn’t, because he had too good an opinion of himself—but if he had, he would have taken care I didn’t get rid of him without a row. He loved making rows. He wouldn’t have made things easy for me. He wouldn’t have missed the opportunity of rubbing it in.”
Her expression was as ugly and common as her words. I felt that I could not control myself much longer and had much better go.
“I repeat,” said I, “that you never understood my father, and you never will. It isn’t in you. I don’t think it’s any good prolonging this discussion. I had better be going. Can you give me Mr. Munting’s address?”