You didn't see his eyes, as I did.
You didn't stand beside him all the evening, watching him, as I did.
He didn't speak to me, Frank.
He never looked at me again.
We stood there together the whole evening and we never spoke to one another.'
'There was no chance,' said Frank.
'All those people.
Of course I saw, don't you think I know Maxim well enough for that?
Look here…'
'I don't blame him,' I interrupted. 'If he believes I played that vile hideous joke he has a right to think what he likes of me, and never talk to me again, never see me again.'
'You mustn't talk like that,' said Frank.
'You don't know what you're saying.
Let me come up and see you.
I think I can explain.'
What was the use of Frank coming to see me, and us sitting in the morning-room together, Frank smoothing me down, Frank being tactful, Frank being kind?
I did not want kindness from anybody now.
It was too late.
'No,' I said.
'No, I don't want to go over it and over it again.
It's happened, it can't be altered now.
Perhaps it's a good thing; it's made me realise something I ought to have known before, that I ought to have suspected when I married Maxim.'
'What do you mean?' said Frank. His voice was sharp, queer.
I wondered why it should matter to him about Maxim not loving me.
Why did he not want me to know?
'About him and Rebecca,' I said, and as I said her name it sounded strange and sour like a forbidden word, a relief to me no longer, not a pleasure, but hot and shaming as a sin confessed.
Frank did not answer for a moment.
I heard him draw in his breath at the other end of the wire.
'What do you mean?' he said again, shorter and sharper than before.
'What do you mean?'
'He doesn't love me, he loves Rebecca,' I said.
'He's never forgotten her, he thinks about her still, night and day.
He's never loved me, Frank.
It's always Rebecca, Rebecca, Rebecca.'
I heard Frank give a startled cry but I did not care how much I shocked him now.
'Now you know how I feel,' I said, 'now you understand.'
'Look here,' he said; 'I've got to come and see you, I've got to, do you hear?
It's vitally important; I can't talk to you down the telephone.
Mrs de Winter?
Mrs de Winter?'
I slammed down the receiver, and got up from the writing-desk.
I did not want to see Frank.
He could not help me over this.
No one could help me but myself.
My face was red and blotchy from crying.
I walked about the room biting the corner of my handkerchief, tearing at the edge.
The feeling was strong within me that I should never see Maxim again.
It was certainty, born of some strange instinct.
He had gone away and would not come back.
I knew in my heart that Frank believed this too and would not admit it to me on the telephone.
He did not want to frighten me.