‘That’s the first compliment you ever paid me. But to end my tale—I saw her in town last March.’
‘Yes?’ Susan has lifted her flower-like face, and is gazing at him.
‘You met her? And she—she—’
‘Was a widow.’
‘A widow; and so you and she.... It is quite a romance!’ says Susan, in her soft voice, speaking hurriedly, almost stammering, indeed, in what is perhaps her joyful excitement over this beautiful ending to a sad love-story. ‘And she was as beautiful as ever?’
‘Well, hardly,’ said Crosby slowly, as if recalling a late picture to mind. ‘She is now, I am sorry to say, all angles. She was once plump. Her nose struck me as anything but Roman now; and her eyes were blacker than ever—I wonder who blacks them?’
‘Yet when you saw her, you must have thought of the past. You must have—’
‘You are quite right: I thought strongly of the past. I thought of nothing else. I said to myself: “At this moment this woman might have been your wife, but for—” I forget the rest—I believe I fainted. When I recovered I knew I loved her as I had never loved her before. She had refused me!’
‘I suppose that’s what people call cynicism?’ says Susan, regarding him with open distrust.
‘I don’t know what any other fellow would call it,’ says Crosby mildly. ‘I only know that I call it a blessed relief. I felt quite kindly towards her, and went forthwith and bought her tickets for something or other, and sent them to her with a line, saying I was going to Africa for ten years. But there’s no more animosity. I look upon her now as a woman who has done me a really good turn.’