“Then you would go away with me to-morrow anywhere?”
“Yes, of course,” she answered, now without any hesitation.
“You know that you would lose your good name, your life at home, your friends, most of them? Everything that has made life worth living to you?”
“Yes—I love you.”
“And then there is your husband. He has been very good to you. He has never given you the least cause of complaint. He’s been awfully decent to you.”
“Oh! he doesn’t care. It’s you, Jim; I love you heart and soul.”
But he knew through it all that she didn’t: the very repetition of the phrase showed that. She was trying, he knew, to persuade herself that she did because of the immediate pleasure that it would bring her. She wasn’t consciously insincere, but he shrank back in his chair from her touch, because he was not sure what he would do if he let her remain there.
He put her hands aside firmly. “No, you mustn’t. Look here, I’ve something to tell you. I know you’ll think me an awful cad, but I must be straight with you. I’ve found out something. I’ve been thinking all these days, and, you know, I don’t love you as I thought I did. Not in the fine way that I imagined; I don’t even love you as I love my wife. It is only sensual, all of it. It’s your body that I want, not you. That sounds horrible, doesn’t it? I know, I’m ashamed, but it’s true.”
His voice sank into a whisper. He expected her to turn on him with scorn, loathing, hatred. Perhaps she would even make a scene. Well, that was better, at any rate, than going on with it. He might just save his soul and hers in time. But he did not dare to look at her. He was ashamed to raise his eyes. And then, to his amazement, he felt her hand on his knee again. Her face was very close to his and she was speaking very softly.
“Well—perhaps—dear, that other kind of love will come. That’s really only one part of it. That other love cannot come at once.”