“Why should I laugh at you, boy?” she whispered.
“I don’t know. Why shouldn’t you laugh at me? Don’t you remember—before we got married—you said that being in love was all nonsense; that husband and wife ought to be. . . .”
“Don’t, Peter, don’t!”—he knew, though in all his life he had never heard her cry, that she was crying. “You make me so ashamed. It’s been my own fault—every bit of it has been my own fault”—he couldn’t understand—he only knew that suddenly happiness had come to them both—she crept into his arms—“Peter?”
“Yes, darling.”
“Am I the only woman you’ve ever tried to make love to? . . . .”
Was she laughing now? or crying? He couldn’t understand—he couldn’t understand at all.
“Do answer me, boy?”
“Of course you are. I’ve never loved anybody but you in my life.”
“Honestly?” she asked.
“On my dying oath, Pat.”