Each of them used the other's Christian name in every sentence as if the uttermost advantage must be taken of an opportunity that neither of them had hoped to enjoy over again. Each of them seemed to feel the propriety, the necessity indeed, of giving way to sentiment on such an occasion.
"She believed that she was acting for the best."
"And was she?" he asked, looking at the woman of whom, once the illusion of her love was shattered and the first chagrin was allayed, he had scarcely thought in all those years.
"It's hardly fair to ask me that now, Pierre. You forget that I am married and the mother of three children."
"I am not married," he murmured, drawing his chair a little closer.
"You have been otherwise occupied."
"I had to occupy myself."
By now Pierre's chair had made a ruck in the carpet, at which he would have to put it like a horse at a fence if he wished to draw still closer to Mary; but rising boldly he seated himself in another chair at least three feet nearer.
"I had to occupy myself," he repeated. "When you wrote me that letter I was ... but what right have I to speak of my feelings now? I must consider myself lucky that I was able to forget them in my new career."
"Time works miracles," Mary sighed. "I've often wondered where you were and what you were doing."