“Ah,” said Miss Mason. And then she added quietly, “and your wife died too?”
“No,” said Jasper, “she is alive.”
There was a silence. The studio window was wide open, and the evening sunlight was streaming in. From one of the trees in the garden a thrush was singing a song of love and happiness.
“Perhaps,” said Miss Mason suddenly, “you would care to tell me about it.”
And Jasper told her. He told her the whole story, omitting nothing; though, wonderful to relate, making no excuses for himself.
“I suppose,” he ended, “that Bridget lost all interest in life, and I was always wanting her to be something she had lost the power of being. And I got disheartened because she could not adapt herself to my pattern.”
For a moment Miss Mason did not reply. She did not care to say that it had been largely Jasper’s fault that his wife had lost interest in life. After a moment she spoke slowly.
“I think,” she said, “it is always dangerous to try and cut people to our own pattern. We are so terribly apt to cut the cords of love first.”
“I know,” said Jasper, “and now it is, as she said, too late.”
“It is never too late,” said Miss Mason energetically. “Why don’t you go and see her?”