He sighed profoundly, remained for several minutes silent, and finally roused himself with a painful effort.
“There are some griefs which can defy any consolation save that of time. Time ultimately cures everything. It is a matter of history that I was once very much attached to Sara.”
“I know,” murmured Pensée. “I know.”
He covered his eyes with one hand and looked through his fingers at her face, asking himself by what transition he could best arrive at a frank exposition of his embarrassed sentiments. It seemed to him that she was intelligent as well as trustworthy, and he felt impelled to call in her assistance, being sure that, in any cause where love could be pleaded, she would show a judicious leniency.
“If you have not observed that I am still—too interested, you have not observed with your usual sagacity,” said he.
“I think—if I may say so—that time seems only to deepen a sorrow of that kind.”
“Particularly when it is associated—as in this case—with a certain self-reproach. In times of trial my pen is my refuge. I could not write for a year after I had decided—irrevocably as I believed—that Sara and I could not make each other happy.”
“Then you never actually proposed to her? There was never any tacit understanding?”
“Never. And if there be any part of my conduct in life upon which I can look with entire satisfaction, it is my behaviour with regard to Sara. I did not mislead her in any way. I was even over-scrupulous, and purposely avoided opportunities of meeting. I say this in order that you may know how very determined a man's will must be—if he does not wish to be selfish. A course of struggling is miserable indeed. I spared her any knowledge of my misery.”