"It's not the same thing as lying to the person you love. I wish—I wonder whether you'd mind if I never told her it was a lie? Couldn't I tell her that we were engaged but you've broken it off? That you found you liked Temple better, or something?"
She gasped before the sudden vision of the naked gigantic egotism of a man in love.
"You can tell her what you like," she said wearily: "a lie or two more or less—what does it matter?"
"I don't want to lie to her," said Vernon. "I hate to. But she'd never understand the truth."
"You think I understand? It is the truth you've been telling me?"
He laughed. "I don't think I ever told so much truth in all my life."
"And you've thoroughly enjoyed it! You alway did enjoy new sensations!"
"Ah, don't sneer at me. You don't understand—not quite. Everything's changed. I really do feel as though I'd been born again. The point of view has shifted—and so suddenly, so completely. It's a new Heaven and a new earth. But the new earth's not comfortable, and I don't suppose I shall ever get the new Heaven. But you'll help me—you'll advise me? Do you think I ought to tell her at once? You see, she's so different from other girls—she's—"
"She isn't," Lady St. Craye interrupted, "except that she's the one you love; she's not a bit different from other girls. No girl's different from other girls."
"Ah, you don't know her," he said. "You see, she's so young and brave and true and—what is it—Why—"