an,norgoodinanyway.He’sneverflatteredmenorhonouredme.Butbecausehe’shandsome,that’sbeenenough.ThesonofanItaliandentist,withaprettyface.”Sherepeatedthephraseasifitwasacharmagainstpassion.“Oh,Mr.Herriton,isn’titfunny!”Then,tohisrelief,shebegantocry.“Ilovehim,andI’mnotashamedofit.Ilovehim,andI’mgoingtoSawston,andifImayn’tspeakabouthimtoyousometimes,Ishalldie.”
InthatterriblediscoveryPhilipmanagedtothinknotofhimselfbutofher.Hedidnotlament.Hedidnotevenspeaktoherkindly,forhesawthatshecouldnotstandit.Aflippantreplywaswhatsheaskedandneeded—somethingflippantandalittlecynical.Andindeeditwastheonlyreplyhecouldtrusthimselftomake.
“Perhapsitiswhatthebookscall‘apassingfancy’?”
Sheshookherhead.Eventhisquestionwastoopathetic.Forasfarassheknewanythingaboutherself,sheknewthatherpassions,oncearoused,weresure.“IfIsawhimoften,”shesaid,“Imightrememberwhatheislike.Orhemightgrowold.ButIdarenotriskit,sonothingcanaltermenow.”
“Well,ifthefancydoespass,letmeknow.”Afterall,hecouldsaywhathewanted.
“Oh,youshallknowquickenough—”
“ButbeforeyouretiretoSawston—areyousomightysure?”
“Whatof?”Shehadstoppedcrying.Hewastreatingherexactlyasshehadhoped.
“Thatyouandhe—”Hesmiledbitterlyatthethoughtofthemtogether.Herewasthecruelantiquemaliceofthegods,suchastheyoncesentforthagainstPasiphae.Centuriesofaspirationandculture—andtheworldcouldnotescapeit.“Iwasgoingtosay—whateverhaveyougotincommon?”
“Nothingexceptthetimeswehaveseeneachother.”Againherfacewascrimson.Heturnedhisownfaceaway.
“Which—whichtimes?”
“ThetimeIthoughtyouweakandheedless,andwentinsteadofyoutogetthebaby.Thatbeganit,asfarasIknowthebeginning.Oritmayhavebegunwhenyoutookustothetheatre,andIsawhimmixedupwithmusicandlight.Butdidn’tunderstandtillthemorning.Thenyouopenedthedoor—andIknewwhyIhadbeensohappy.Afterwards,inthechurch,Iprayedforusallnotforanythingnew,butthatwemi