"The shadow of an unforgiving spirit."
"Yes," said John gently, "but that is a deep one, Di. It numbs the heart. He took it down with him to the grave. If it is true that we can carry nothing away with us out of the world, I hope he left his bitterness of spirit behind."
Di did not answer.
"That very unforgiveness and bitterness were in him only the seamy side of constancy," said John at last. "He really loved your mother."
"If he had really loved her, he would have forgiven her."
"Not necessarily. A nobler nature would. But he had not a very noble nature. That is just the sad part of it."
There was a long silence. At last Di closed the case, and put it back in the drawer. She held the little slip of paper in her hand, and looked up at John rather wistfully.
He took it from her, and, walking down the gallery, dropped it into the wood fire burning at the further end. He came back and stood before her, and their grave eyes met. The growing intimacy between them seemed to have made a stride within the last half-hour, which left the conversation of yesterday miles behind.
"Thank you," she said.
