Richard had written to say he was married. On the twenty-fifth of
February. That was just ten days after Mamma died.
"We've known each other the best part of our lives. So you see it's a
very sober middle-aged affair."
He had married the woman who loved him when he was young. "A very sober
middle-aged affair." Not what it would have been if you and he--He
didn't want you to think that _that_ would ever happen again. He wanted
you to see that with him and you it had been different, that you had
loved him and lived with him in that other time he had made for you where
you were always young.
He had only made it for you. She, poor thing, would have to put up with
other people's time, time that made them middle-aged, made them old.
You had got to write and tell him you were glad. You had got to tell him
Mamma died ten days ago. And he would say to himself, "If I'd waited
another ten days--" There was nothing he could say to you.
That was why he didn't write again. There was nothing to say.