It was inexplicable.

He thought of the mother instinct which gives even to the little girl a doll.

He had supposed that his own fancies were but weak reflections of what was in the innermost heart of the woman he loved so.

He blurted out, almost roughly: "'Portia is Brutus' harlot, not his wife.'" Then added, bitterly, "It is the man who is saying it this time, you see." A second later, shame-faced and repentant, he had caught the slender figure in his arms and was holding it close to him.
"I'm a brute, dear," he said, "and there is no excuse for me.

I understand, I think.