“It’s incredible! incredible!” I whispered.
At that she got up from the floor, walked over to the wash-stand,
dipped her handkerchief into the jug and sponged her eyes, saying: “Oh,
no. It’s not incredible at all.” And still pressing the wet ball to her
eyes she came back to me, to her chair with the lace tabs, and sank
into it.
“I knew all along, of course,” said the cold, salty little voice. “From
the very moment that we started. I felt it all through me, but I still
went on hoping—” and here she took the handkerchief down and gave me a
final glimmer—“as one so stupidly does, you know.”
“As one does.”
Silence.
“But what will you do? You’ll go back? You’ll see him?”
That made her sit right up and stare across at me.
“What an extraordinary idea!” she said, more coldly than ever. “Of
course I shall not dream of seeing him. As for going back—that is quite
out of the question. I can’t go back.”
“But . . .”
“It’s impossible. For one thing all my friends think I am married.”