I believe she always does forget, just at first. And judging by the men whose faces at such moments I have watched, it must be so much nicer that way. She would not be human if she remembered straight away.
All such gratitude as this then from Clarissa I had lost. Through the dim light behind those white muslin curtains, the utmost I could imagine of her was that she was down upon her knees, praying God that she might never see me again. And when I did reach the house, it was just this picture and no other that my mind painted for me.
Why had I come into her life? But I did not put it that way. I asked myself why she had come into mine. And what is more, I knew that I could answer it. It was because of the terrible loneliness which hemmed her in on every side. That it was which had made its appeal to me. She was more beset with the utter solitude of life even than I. I at least had Dandy. There was Moxon, too, who, if it came to such a pass, would willingly serve me for nothing rather than leave me to myself. But this poor child had no one, and as I gazed up at the cheerless window staring out across the sea I felt that, were it given to me—disfigured as I am—I could bring her nearer to that mysterious secret of content which needs no qualities of possession to make it clear.
"But that," said I to myself, "is the talk of a child."
"Out of the mouths of babes—" began an urgent voice within me.
"That," said I, emphatically and aloud, "is the talk of a child." To which the voice within me had no more to say.
It was at this moment that I turned away and simultaneously saw the figure of Bellwattle emerge from the front door, hurrying away towards home.
In a dozen steps I had come up with her. Suspicion was working quickly in my mind.
"What have you been doing in there?" I asked.
"Seeing the Miss Fennells," she replied, promptly.