“You were very frank with me once, Wingrave,” she said. “You are a man whose life fate has wrecked, fate and I! You have no heart left, no feeling. You can create suffering and find it amusing. I am beginning to realize that.”
He nodded.
“There is some truth,” he declared, “In what you say.”
“What of that child? Is she, too, to be a victim?”
“I trust,” he answered, “that you are not going to be melodramatic.”
“I don’t call it that. I really want to know. I should like to warn her.”
“I am not at war with children,” he answered. “Her life and mine are as far apart as the poles.”
“I had an odd fancy when I saw you with her,” Lady Ruth said slowly. “She is very good-looking—and not so absurdly young.”
“The fancy was one,” he remarked coldly, “which I think you had better get rid of.”
“In a way,” she continued thoughtfully, “I should like to get rid of it, and yet—how old are you, Wingrave? Well, I know. You are very little over forty. You are barely in the prime of life, you are strong, you have the one thing which society today counts almost divine—great, immeasurable wealth! Can’t you find someone to thaw the snows?”