"I like post-mortems, but I don't approve of them."
So she abandoned the post-mortem.
"Tell me," she said, "why you married her? Was she an old flame?"
"No, Lucy—a new flame."
"I hope you will be very, very happy," she said.
"But you doubt it."
"Why shouldn't I?"
"Why indeed?"
"Listen. It—it wasn't any of it your fault. I tried to make you like me, and succeeded, and the harm was done—but now we've settled down to a harmless and quiet old age."
Had we? Oh, why had that pansy face and those great praying eyes come into my life again? Would it be always so when we met, the heart leaping, and the brain swimming, and the body shaken with tenderness and desire?