"No, Owen, no. We're an engaged couple; we're no longer lovers."
"And you think that we should begin by respecting the marriage ceremony?"
She seemed to lose sight of him, she perceived only the general idea, that outline of her life which he represented, and which she could in a way trace in the furniture of the room. It was in this room she had said she would be his mistress. It was from this room she had started for Paris. Her eyes lighted on the harpsichord. He had bought it in some vague intention of presenting it to her father, some day when they were reconciled; the viola da gamba he had bought for her sake; it was the poor little excuse he had devised for coming to see her at Dulwich.
She saw the Gainsborough: how strange and remote it seemed! She looked at the Corot, its sentimentality was an irritation. In the Chippendale bookcases there were many books she had given him; and the white chimney piece was covered with her photographs. There he was, a tall, thin man, elegant and attractive notwithstanding the forty-five years, dressed in a silk shirt and a black smoking suit. Their eyes met again, she could see that he was thinking it over; but it was all settled now, neither could draw back, and the moments were tense and silent; and as if confronted by some imminent peril, she wondered.
"You arranged that I should leave the stage when I married, and you say that we are to be married next week. You don't want me to throw up my engagement at Covent Garden? I should like to play Isolde."
"Of course you must play Isolde; I must hear you sing Isolde."
She felt that she must get up and thank him, she felt that she must be nice to him; and laying her hand on his shoulder, she said—
"I hope I don't seem ungrateful; you have always been very good to me, Owen. I hope I shall make a good wife."
"I think I am less changed than you; I don't think you care for me as you used to."
"Yes, I do, Owen, but I am not always the same. I can't help myself."