“Ah,” she said, “it is so easy to see that you have never loved—that you do not know what love is. When you do you will not talk about letting one’s self care. You might as well talk about letting one’s self die when one is struggling upon a death bed panting and gasping for life. It is the inevitable in love as in death. There is no choice.”
She rose to her feet.
“Goodbye,” she said. “I shall not trouble you any more. I am going to forget that such a person as Philip Maltabar ever lived.”
I walked with her to the door. She looked down the dim road up the park wistfully.
“Perhaps,” she said, “I may see him this afternoon. Was he coming to see you?”
“Certainly not. He does not visit here,” I continued.
“Oh, he comes to see me,” she said, quickly. “Perhaps it is not right—proper you call it—that he should. I do not care. I would like you to come and visit me—but—he might be there,” she added, hesitatingly. “Goodbye.”
I touched her hand, and she went out with a little flush still lingering in her cheeks. I saw her look wistfully up and down the road, and then she picked up her skirts and took the muddy footpath across the park towards the Court. I turned away and went upstairs to my room.
Was it pity for her I wonder that brought the tears into my eyes? After all, I was only a woman.