“You need not trouble. I saw her last night, and I could have made it all right had I chosen—she was quite willing.”
“You can't care for her!”
“I suppose not. I don't think I ever really loved her. I thought I did. I was mistaken.”
“You are very changeable.”
“No, I don't think I am—at least not so far as you are concerned. I was mistaken. I was in love with some one else—with you.”
“With me?”
“Yes, with you. I was in love with you when we went to Reading, and never got over it. I thought I had, but when love is real we never get over it. I always loved you, and those four days I spent nursing you have brought it all out. I shall never love any one else. I know you don't care for me; you said once you couldn't care for me.”
“I! I am too miserable to care for any one. I wish you had let me die; but that is ungrateful. You must excuse me, I am so miserable. Why speak of loving me? I can love no one. I don't care what becomes of me. I am ruined; nothing matters now.”
“I wish you would confide in me; you can trust me. Has he forsaken you? Can you not make it up?”
“No, never now; I shall never see him again.”