“Dick, you haven’t an affair?”
It was a way out. It would straighten all the tangle. And hope was in her voice and in her face.
He smiled, shook his head slowly, and watched her disappointment.
“I take it back,” he said. “I have an affair.”
“Of the heart?”
She was eager, as he answered, “Of the heart.”
But she was not prepared for what came next. He abruptly drew his chair close, till his knees touched hers, and, leaning forward, quickly but gently prisoned her hands in his resting on her knees.
“Don’t be alarmed, little bird-woman,” he quieted her. “I shall not kiss you. It is a long time since I have. I want to tell you about that affair. But first I want to tell you how proud I am—proud of myself. I am proud that I am a lover. At my age, a lover! It is unbelievable, and it is wonderful. And such a lover! Such a curious, unusual, and quite altogether remarkable lover. In fact, I have laughed all the books and all biology in the face. I am a monogamist. I love the woman, the one woman. After a dozen years of possession I love her quite madly, oh, so sweetly madly.”
Her hands communicated her disappointment to him, making a slight, impulsive flutter to escape; but he held them more firmly.
“I know her every weakness, and, weakness and strength and all, I love her as madly as I loved her at the first, in those mad moments when I first held her in my arms.”