His liberty--that which a man of his
type most prizes when he finds it being encroached upon--had been
threatened. There was no forgiveness in the heart of him for that.
In the sudden freedom of his affections--just as Mrs. Durlacher had
so deftly anticipated--he had let them drift--a moth to the nearest
candle, a floating seed to the nearest shore--and Coralie
Standish-Roe had claimed them.
"Can anything be gained by talking?" he asked, quietly.
"Yes--perhaps it's the last time."
"But nothing can be gained by it. You'll only make yourself more
miserable. What is the good of that?"
"Do you think I could be more miserable?" she asked.
He shrugged his shoulders.
This scarcely, without seeking defence for Traill, is the most
difficult part for a man to play well. He had never offered, in the
first beginning of their acquaintance, to deceive her. He was not
a man who had respect for marriage, he had said quite honestly. He
had told her to go--have no truck with him; and if she had gone, if
she had not taken upon herself to return his present, he would have
seen no more of her. She had known of his love of liberty, and she
herself had threatened it; yet now, seemingly, he was playing a mean
part, deserting her, casting her off, when she loved him with every
breath her trembling lips drew through her body.
Pages:
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422