“I know. I could not in conscience, as I told you, take from both sides. For the future—well, they have said nothing; but I expect they are beginning to get tired of it.”
“And you!” questioned Peter.
“Yes. I am tired of it myself,” laughed Miss Ramsbotham. “Life isn’t long enough to be a well-dressed woman.”
“You have done with all that?”
“I hope so,” answered Miss Ramsbotham.
“And don’t want to talk any more about it?” suggested Peter.
“Not just at present. I should find it so difficult to explain.”
By others, less sympathetic than old Peter, vigorous attempts were made to solve the mystery. Miss Ramsbotham took enjoyment in cleverly evading these tormentors. Thwarted at every point, the gossips turned to other themes. Miss Ramsbotham found interest once again in the higher branches of her calling; became again, by slow degrees, the sensible, frank, ‘good sort’ that Bohemia had known, liked, respected—everything but loved.
Years later, to Susan Fossett, the case was made clear; and through Susan Fossett, a nice enough woman but talkative, those few still interested learned the explanation.
“Love,” said Miss Ramsbotham to the bosom friend, “is not regulated by reason. As you say, there were many men I might have married with much more hope of happiness. But I never cared for any other man. He was not intellectual, was egotistical, possibly enough selfish. The man should always be older than the woman; he was younger, and he was a weak character. Yet I loved him.”