‘Oh, Roland,’ she whispers, ‘you know.’
The tone, the words, are too much for him. To hold a pretty woman in his arms and hear her murmuring her love for himself would be perhaps too much for any man. Anyway, it disperses all Sir Roland’s prudence.
‘My darling,’ he says emphatically, ‘why cannot we end all this misery, and live for each other from this time forward?’ But as he speaks, the gondoliers alter their chant, and strike up a little Neapolitan barcarolle. It is a simple plaintive air, without much merit in itself, but the last time Sir Roland heard it, it came from Juliet’s lips as she was hushing a fractious child to rest. In a moment the past scene rises before him. He can see his wife’s drooping figure, the sad look in her eyes; can hear the faltering tones of her weary voice. He recalls, in fact, the mother of his children, the woman who has borne, however impatiently, the burden and heat of the day with him; and all the best part of the man’s nature rises up to condemn his present faithless action.
‘God in heaven!’ he exclaims aloud; ‘what am I saying and doing? Mabel, forgive me! It was the madness of a moment. It shall never be repeated.’
But he has said the words, and they are not to be unsaid. Miss Moore enjoys the situation. It appeals to her romantic proclivities, and she clings to him tightly even whilst she murmurs.
‘Oh no; you mustn’t say such things to me. It is very, very wrong. But, Roland, to know you love me atones for everything. I can die happy now.’
‘Indeed, I had no right to speak to you in such a manner, but your tears made me lose sight of prudence. Mabel, promise me that you will forget what I said.’
‘Don’t ask me that, it will be so sweet to remember,’ she says, still clinging to him. He tries gently to disengage himself.
‘Sit back on your seat, there’s a good girl. These fellows are looking at us. Mabel, try and be calm. We must never mention this subject again. It is too painful.’
‘But why should we deny ourselves the poor delights of memory, since it is all that is left?’