“Well,” said Rosamund with a sort of weary candour, “I don’t want you to. I’m too tired, mentally, for any more violent emotions, Morris. Honestly, I don’t believe the capacity is in me any more.”
“If you fell in love, Rosamund.”
“Oh, Morris!” said Rosamund, half impatiently and half in fatigue, “there are more ways of loving than falling in love.”
Morris turned away despairingly and left her, carrying with him the unescapable conviction that Rosamund had no need of him.
Definitely unattainable, she became to him more desirable than ever before, and it was of hardly any consolation to him that Nina, in the deepest confidence, hinted at the tragedy obscuring his life, both to her hostess and to as many of her hostess’ friends as appeared sympathetic.
“My poor boy!” she said softly, and Morris divined that despair had imparted a ravaged appearance to his handsome young face.
“I have only cared for one woman in my life,” he told himself, not without some naïve feeling of surprise at the discovery. “First and last, it’s been Rosamund. On revient toujours à son premier amour.”
The aphorism was so pathetic that he repeated it next day to Nina, who was evidently disposed for the rôle of adoring mother, sympathizing blindly with her boy’s wrongs.
“I can’t forgive that girl!” she cried, with all the feminine unreason of fiction, and a blaze in her great eyes that was distinctly creditable in view of the fact that she so seldom called it into play.
“No,” said Morris magnanimously, “I’m not worthy of her, mother. It’s all right—only I can’t let you blame her.”