"Very magnanimous," she answered him. "But don't be too sure that she doesn't love you. Or she will when she's recovered from this present little affair. You must marry her, Peter—and if you do you'll make a success of it. She's the honestest woman I've met yet and you're the honestest man I know. You'll suit one another. . . . Mind you, I don't mean that as a compliment. People as honest as you two are tiresome for ordinary folks to live with. I found you tiresome twenty years ago, Peter, I find you tiresome still."
He suddenly came down and knelt beside her sofa putting his arm round her. "Clare, please, please don't talk like that. My life's with you now. I daresay you find me dull. I am dull I know. But I'm old enough to understand now that you must have your freedom. All that I care about is for you to get well; then you shall do as you like. I won't tie you in any way; only be there if you want a friend."
She suddenly put up her hand and stroked his cheek, then as suddenly withdrew her hand and tucked it under her.
"Poor Peter," she said. "It was bad luck my coming back like that just when she'd broken with her young man. Never mind. I'll see what I can do. I did you a bad turn once—it would be nice and Christian of me to do you a good turn now. We ought never to have married of course—but you would marry me, you know."
She looked at him curiously, as though she were seeing him for the first time.
"What do you think about life, Peter? What does it mean to you, all this fuss and agitation?"
"Mean?" he repeated. "Oh, I don't know."
"Yes, you do," she answered him. "I know exactly what you think. You think it's for us all to get better in. To learn from experience, a kind of boarding-school before the next world."
"Well, I suppose I do think it's something of that sort," he answered. "It hasn't any meaning for me otherwise. It feels like a fight and a fight about something real."
"And what about the people who get worse instead of better? It's rather hard luck on them. It isn't their fault half the time."