"Don't you look at it that way?" he said, regarding her curiously.
She hesitated momentarily. "Not entirely, no. The woman was dead and you were alone."
"I was—horribly alone," he said.
"I don't think it was wrong of you to marry," she said. "Only—you ought to love your wife."
"Ah!" he said. "I thought we agreed that love comes only once."
She shook her head. "Not quite that. Besides, there are many kinds of love." Again for a second she hesitated looking straight at him. "Shall I tell you something? I don't know whether I ought. It is almost like a breach of confidence—though it was never told to me."
"What is it?" he said imperatively.
She made a little gesture of yielding. "Yes, I will tell you. Mr. Fielding, you might make your wife love you—so dearly—if you cared to take the trouble."
"What?" he said.
Her eyes met his with a faint, faint smile. "Doesn't it seem absurd," she said, "that it should fall to me—a comparative stranger—to tell you this, when you have been together for so long? It is the truth. She is just as lonely and unhappy as you are. You could transform the whole world for her—if you only would."