“Another?”
“Yes.... She’s always had an eye for young genius. Queer-looking specimens usually ... you should have seen the one she brought home from Chicago once. Name was—Dick, Dick something. A poet. Never heard what became of him, but I imagine that he died of drugs.”
“Was she in love with him?”
“It’s hard to say. I don’t know whether she’s ever been in love.”
“What!”
Rose-Ann’s father came to a halt again. “Oh, yes, she married you; but she ran away from you.... And the nearest I can come to telling you why, is that I suspect she ran away because she was afraid she would love you.... If that sounds foolish, just put it down to the maunderings of an old man.”
“It doesn’t sound foolish to me,” said Felix. “It sounds—true.”
“Well, then, I’ll tell you something else. I imagine she’s nearer to being in love with you now than she was when she married you! What do you think of that?”
“Perhaps it’s only because it’s what I wish to believe,” said Felix, “but it sounds like gospel.”
“There’s such a thing as being afraid of falling in love,” mused Rose-Ann’s father. “I think she married you because she thought she would be safe from that danger—I know it doesn’t sound very complimentary to you, but maybe you know what I mean—and she ran away from you because she found out she was mistaken.”