“You are going abroad?”
“Perhaps.”
“Where to?”
“I have not made up my mind.”
“But you will let us know; you will write?”
“Nay; perhaps not even that.”
Pepa looked steadily at the floor.
“It is folly that you and I should talk in riddles and beat about the bush,” said Leon. “For some months we have always used vague phrases, as if we had something to hide. If there is any guilt in our souls it had better be plainly uttered than hypocritically concealed. In fact I must speak out.
“After I had so completely lost every dream of domestic happiness I became a constant visitor at your house. Perhaps—nay indeed, certainly—I went there too often. My loneliness, my dulness, my longing for some of the pleasures of a home life, led me there in search of that comfort which is as necessary to the human soul as equilibrium is to the body. I was perishing of cold; what wonder then that I went where I found warmth? I began by amusing myself with Monina, I ended by worshipping her, for I felt not merely a want but the maddest craving to love and be loved. It is so easy to win a child’s love. I had a wild desire to revel in childish things, to lay my heart, empty and void as it was, at her baby feet for her to stamp upon it—I do not know how else to express it—but you will understand. I always fancy you can read my soul since yours is no secret to me. I feel as though for a long time we had been acting a comedy....”
“I never act!” interrupted Pepa.