“Bertie,” she said again, “Bertie, you are not angry? I did not know what I was saying.”
“You are a woman,” he said gently, and it was just by reason of this gentleness that there seemed to be a reproach in his voice. He reproached her for being a woman.
“I am a woman—just as other women, just as other women.” Her voice sounded like a moan. “I thought myself different, stronger—perhaps worse than other women. I was wrong. Oh, Bertie! cannot you see that she loves you as I loved you long ago—oh, so long ago? And someone has said that there is no past tense in love! No, no! she does not love you as I loved you—guiltily; no, her love is the love that purifies, that exalts. She loves you, and she waits for you to tell her that you love her. You love her, Bertie?”
There was a long pause before he said:
“Do I?”
“Do you not?”
“God knows.”
And it was at this point that Phyllis came up. Was there no expression of suspicion on her face as she looked at them standing together?
If there was, they failed to notice it.
“I came out to get a rose,” she said. “How quickly you dressed, Ella! Ah, you have got your rose—a beauty! Your gardener is generous; he actually allows you to pluck your own roses.”