She caught hold of his hands.
“You poor, poor dear!” she cried. “How you must have suffered!”
Wingrave had a terrible moment. What he felt he would never have admitted, even to himself. Her eyes were shining with sympathy, and it was so unexpected. He had expected something in the nature of a cold withdrawal; her silence was the only thing he had counted upon. It was a fierce, but short battle. His sudden grasp of her hands was relaxed. He stood away from her.
“You are very kind,” he said. “As you can doubtless imagine, it is a little too late for sympathy. The years have gone, and the better part of me, if ever there was a better part, with them.”
“I am not so sure of that!” she whispered.
He looked at her coldly.
“Why not?”
“If you were absolutely heartless,” she said, “if you were perfectly consistent, why did you not make me suffer? You had a great chance! A little feigned affection, and then a few truths. You could have dragged me down a little way into the pit of broken hearts! Why didn’t you?”
He frowned.
“One is forced to neglect a few opportunities!”