Then he read the letter. "What do you mean," he asked, "by making too much of it?"
"You must not suppose that Mary is the same as before she saw this cousin of hers."
"But she is the same."
"Well;—yes, in body and in soul, no doubt. But such an experience leaves a mark which cannot be rubbed out quite at once."
"You mean that I must wait before I ask her again."
"Of course you must wait. The mark must be rubbed out first, you know."
"I will wait; but as for the rubbing out of the mark, I take it that will be altogether beyond me. Do you think, Mrs. Fenwick, that no woman should ever, under any circumstances, marry one man when she loves another?"
She could not bring herself to tell him that in her opinion Mary Lowther would of all women be the least likely to do so. "That is one of those questions," she said, "which it is almost impossible for a person to answer. In the first place, before answering it, we should have a clear definition of love."
"You know what I mean well enough."
"I do know what you mean, but I hardly do know how to answer you. If you went to Mary Lowther now, she would take it almost as an insult; and she would feel it in that light, because she is aware that you know of this story of her cousin."