“There was one man in my life,” she said low and deeply. “There is never more than one—that counts. And a woman who has never loved, never been loved, never met her mate—has never lived.”
The room was tensely silent.
“It was more than ten years ago, and I have outlived the poignancy of it. I have never seen him since—I never shall. But I make no secret of having known fulfilment.”
Her voice was low and rich with intense enjoyment of her own effect.
“Even now, though, when all the storm and stress is long, long past—it’s odd, but the scent of a syringa in bloom can still hurt me. You see—I was swept right off my feet.”
She paused before concluding with the words that she had unconsciously learnt by heart, so significantly did they always round off her retrospect.
“I had waited for him all my life. He asked everything, and I gave—everything.”
“Ah!”
“You splendid woman!”
Adela leant back again, her large eyes gazing abstractedly into the past, full of a brooding satisfaction. Her lips exhaled a sound that was barely audible.