“I could never doubt your honour, Sara. Is the other man quite, quite out of the question?”
“Quite.”
“But perhaps he does love you.”
“Oh no, he doesn't. He may think me picturesque and rather entertaining. It never went deeper than that. I saw at once that his mind was fixed on some other woman.”
“I suppose one can always tell when a man's affections are really engaged,” said Pensée, with a sigh.
“Yes, beyond any doubt. You feel that they are comparing you at every point, in a silent, cold-blooded way, to the bright particular star. I envy you, Pensée; you, at least, were desperately loved by Lionel. But I—never, never was loved—except once.”
“Who was he?”
“He was a Russian, very good-looking, and a genius. But oh, I wasn't old enough to understand him. When he died, I cried for half a day and seven nights. And after that, not a tear. You see, I didn't understand myself either.”
“Do I know this other one ... the one, now?”
“I won't tell you his name. Perhaps, another time, when we are all very old ... and he is dead ... or I am dying....”