“Pain!” he said, mockingly. “Do we live in the old days of constancy and truth, when a man loved but one woman and loved her loyally until he died? How many loves have the children of this generation in a lifetime? A man suffers pain nowadays when he loses a limb or loses his fortune—not when he is unhappy in his love.”
She looked at him and something like a sob rose to her lips; his voice was so full of anguish, there was such unutterable woe in his dark eyes.
“You must forgive me,” she said, still more gently. “I knew you were unhappy about Lady Hermione in the time past, and I would rather suffer all the pain there is in the world than that you should have the least to bear.”
“Would you?” he asked. “Why are you so kind to me, Clarice?”
The only answer Clarice Severn gave was a long, deep-drawn sigh. If he could not read why in her face, then should his question never meet with a reply.
“Did you not tell me two years ago that there was something of the kind between them?” he repeated.
“Yes; but I was not sure. Lady Hermione is so much admired, you know, so beautiful, and has so many lovers.”
“True; and it is impossible to tell which she prefers. Who would be one of a crowd? I would have the whole of a woman’s heart, or none.”
“You deserve it,” she said, and again Sir Ronald looked at her, wondering why she was so kind.
It did not occur to him just then, though afterward he thought of it.