“He doesn’t know who I am, though,” said Mrs. Bowring, with conviction. “He seems to be more like his mother than like you. He couldn’t conceal anything long.”
“I wasn’t particularly good at that either, as it turned out,” said Sir Adam, gravely.
“No, thank God!”
“Do you think it’s something to be thankful for? I don’t. Things might have gone better afterwards—”
“Afterwards!” The suffering of the woman’s life was in the tone and in her eyes.
“Yes, afterwards. I’m an old man, Lucy, and I’ve seen a great many things since you and I parted, and a great many people. I was bad enough, but I’ve seen worse men since, who have had another chance and have turned out well.”
“Their wives did not love them. I am almost old, too. I loved you, Adam. It was a bad hurt you gave me, and the wound never healed. I married—I had to marry. He was an honest gentleman. Then he was killed. That hurt too, for I was very fond of him—but it did not hurt as the other did. Nothing could.”
Her voice shook, and she turned away her face. At least, he should not see that her lip trembled.
“I didn’t think you cared,” said Sir Adam, and his own voice was not very steady.
She turned upon him almost fiercely, and there was a blue light in her faded eyes.