“She said that you loved her, and could not marry her, and had set her free. Do you love her?” Geoffrey asked.
“My God!” Maurice exclaimed, still staring at his friend. Suddenly turning aside, he cast his arms upon the table, bent his head upon them, and burst into loud weeping.
Geoffrey looked at him for some minutes, then, turning away, he gazed down into the fire. He steadily saw a mean desire, the only foothold his hope had clung to, that Maurice’s attitude would show some obvious unworthiness, some triviality, a surprised and kindly consternation that would make of Felicia’s love a misplaced, girlish dream. He now seemed to watch that desire shrivelling in the flames, Maurice, too, suffered. There was simply no more hope.
Presently in choked tones Maurice spoke: “I adore her; I have from the beginning. Don’t you remember?” Through his grief the resentment showed itself.
“Yes, I do. At the time I thought it was unimportant. Later on, even had I not forgotten it, I should have thought it unimportant. You never spoke of it again. And had she been as indifferent to you as I thought, our friendship, yours and mine, Maurice, wouldn’t have stood for a moment between my wishes and her.” Before this firmness Maurice’s resentment, convicted of helpless folly, resolved itself into sobs again.
“You adore her, and you give her up?” Geoffrey asked.
“What can I do? Why do you ask? I am up to my neck in debt. I am worse than penniless. How could I let her hope on? How can I ask her to marry me?”
“Why did you ask her?”
“Don’t turn the knife in the wound, Geoffrey. Don’t be ungenerous. I was a fool, a weak, cruel fool, no doubt; but I loved her, and I couldn’t help myself. I hoped that something might turn up.”
“Why don’t you still hope?”