He continued:
“The Rosebud, a beautiful yacht. There were six men in the crew. I manoeuvred with them. It was a pastime.”
He paused. She was walking slowly, saddened, and, above all, annoyed. It seemed to her an absurd and painful thing, beyond all expression, to have to listen to such words from a stranger.
He continued:
“What I suffered on that boat I should be ashamed to tell you.”
She felt he spoke the truth.
“Oh, I forgive you—I have reflected alone a great deal. I passed many nights and days on the divan of the deckhouse, turning always the same ideas in my mind. For six months I have thought more than I ever did in my life. Do not laugh. There is nothing like suffering to enlarge the mind. I understand that if I have lost you the fault is mine. I should have known how to keep you. And I said to myself: ‘I did not know. Oh; if I could only begin again!’ By dint of thinking and of suffering, I understand. I know now that I did not sufficiently share your tastes and your ideas. You are a superior woman. I did not notice it before, because it was not for that that I loved you. Without suspecting it, I irritated you.”
She shook her head. He insisted.
“Yes, yes, I often wounded your feelings. I did not consider your delicacy. There were misunderstandings between us. The reason was, we have not the same temperament. And then, I did not know how to amuse you. I did not know how to give you the amusement you need. I did not procure for you the pleasures that a woman as intelligent as you requires.”
So simple and so true was he in his regrets and in his pain, she found him worthy of sympathy. She said to him, softly: