“I tried conscientiously to do just that, Poictiers. I’ll confess now that I didn’t begin to see how dastardly it would look when it was written out in black on white. But I didn’t spare myself in the least.”
“What kind of an answer do you expect?” Carfax had sat down again and his face was turned away.
“Honestly, I don’t know. Every word that I have ever told you about the lack of sentiment between us is true: and yet ... well, Elizabeth is a woman, after all, Poictiers. Even in a relationship as unsentimental as ours has been there are limitations—there must be limitations.”
Carfax was gazing now into the heart of the dying fire.
“If the case were reversed, Vance, what would your answer be?”
Tregarvon gave a short laugh. “I can’t imagine the reversal,” he parried. “Elizabeth is one of those splendid, serene, élevé women who go through life without ever knowing the meaning of a grand passion.”
“Still, you haven’t answered my question.”
“I am not afraid to answer it. If Elizabeth had told me, even before I met Richardia, that she had— Oh, piffle! it’s no use; I can’t imagine it!”
For a long time Carfax said nothing. But when the final whiff had been drawn from the bedtime pipes, he ventured a small request.
“I’ve been butting in on your affairs so long that it has come to be a habit, Vance,” he said, with his quaint smile. “When you hear from Elizabeth, will you tell me what she says?”