An expression of triumph flitted across her face. "Not loved." Her voice was full-throated. "He adored me, and to me he was a god whom I worshiped. I'd have gone through hell for him. I'd——"
"No, you wouldn't."
The flatness of the contradiction pulled her up short. "No you wouldn't," he repeated quietly. "You wouldn't even go through this for him. You wouldn't play the game by him when he was dead. He always kept his end up, whatever the odds against him; but you—you couldn't. This was your chance to show that you were worthy of him. While he was alive, you played a winning game; it was easy to be true to him. But he—he was stauncher; he was most to be trusted when the game seemed all but lost. You ought to have kept his spirit alive for us; but you've understood so little of his spirit that you've been willing to put any stranger in his place—to quote your own words, any stranger who chose to hang his hat in your hall. Pollock was a soldier; he didn't need to be sure of victory to show courage. It was in tight corners that he was at his best. You're in a tight corner now, and you're his wife—the wife whom he didn't love, but adored."
The brutal impact of the truth had struck her
dumb at first. Her lips had fallen apart. While she had listened, her face had gone white. Now that he paused, she slipped back into the cushions, covering her eyes with her hands. "For God's sake stop torturing me! Though you think I'm as contemptible as that, don't say it. If you must speak, tell me what you think I ought to do."
"Do! Until you find a living man who's his match, carry on as though he were not dead."
She uncovered her eyes and sat upright, staring at him. "As though he were not dead. But Reggie is dead. You know as well as I do that he's dead."
Tabs nodded. "I'm not denying it. But for all that, try to live as though he weren't—as though somewhere up the road, a day, a week, a month, a year hence he would meet you round the corner."
Her interest faded forlornly. "What good would that do? It would only be making believe with myself."
He spoke gently. "Yes, but games of make-believe come true. You couldn't meet him, but you might meet some one his equal—a man who's, perhaps, already waiting for you, while you squander yourself on makeshifts and second bests."