“You think I’m ungrateful to you,” said she, with quick sensitiveness. “But I’m not, Godfrey—indeed I’m not.”
“Ungrateful?” I laughed. “Don’t talk nonsense.”
“You’ve done all you could—all anyone could. And in a way I am happy. But——”
“Yes?” I urged, as she hesitated.
“Well, I’ve found out—looking back over my life—I’ve found out that I— It seems to me I’ve got all the tools of happiness, but nothing to work on. I keep thinking, ‘How happy I could be if I only had something to work on!’”
I was silent. A shadow crept out of a black corner of my heart and cast a somberness and a chill over me.
“You understand?” said she.
I nodded.
“I thought you would,” she went on. “Godfrey, I’ve often felt sorry for you—sorrier than I do for myself.” She laid her hand on my arm. “But you’re a man—a handsome, attractive, young man. You’ll have only yourself to blame if you waste your life as mine’s been wasted.”
“You don’t realize how lucky you’ve been,” said I, with a bitterness that surprised me. “You’ve at least escaped marriage.”