“Yes, yes, of course,” faltered Gertrude.
“And I know that you do not love George Harrington.”
A pause.
“And George Harrington does not love you.”
“He told me he did—very dearly, Mrs Hampton, and if—if—I do not love him as I ought to do, I shall try so very, very hard to make him a true and loving wife.”
“Trying is no use, my dear. Love comes and goes of itself. You may make yourself friends with any one, but you cannot make yourself love.”
“Not when he loves me?” cried Gertrude.
“So much, my child, that only a short time before he is married to you, he goes and plays the swine.”
“Mrs Hampton!” cried Gertrude indignantly.
“Very well, then, my dear, I will not speak like that. It is too blunt and strong. He goes then—after promising everybody, and in disobedience to Doctor Lawrence’s orders, and quite soon after a dangerous attack of delirium tremens, brought on by drink—and takes that which has compelled him to keep his bed this morning.”