“People seem to think that girls—that women—care for nothing but one thing—being married, I mean. I'm sure that's a mistake. One gets interested, one may get absorbed—and then there's a difficulty. For it's very true, I think, that unless we care for the one thing, and that thing only, we don't care for it at all. At least, that is how I feel about it. I have got lots of interests in life—all these things here—management of things. I don't want Nevile—or to be married. I don't want anything of the sort; I can't be bothered. I cared once—frightfully; but now I don't care. All that was long ago; at the beginning—eight years ago. Now it's done with, I only want to be let alone—to do my work here. It doesn't seem to me much to ask; but—” ...
It was then that she looked at him, and was beyond the power of his sounding. She grew vehement, full of still, passionless rage. She was like a goddess pronouncing a decree; she was final.
“I don't want to marry Nevile. It bores me. And he doesn't want me, really. He thinks he does, because he thinks that he can't have me any other way. But he would be miserable, and so should I. It seems to me impossible. You can't put life into dead things. When he came back here the other day he had been away a year: a year and ten days. He had written to me twice—”
Chevenix interrupted. “Excuse me,” he said. “How many times had you written to him?” He had guessed at pique; but he was wrong.
She replied slowly. “I forwarded his letters. I hadn't written at all.” Her simplicity! Chevenix allowed her to go on.
“The thing—all that it began with—was over. I felt that. I showed him that the first evening he was here. He has never spoken to me again—of that sort of thing, and I don't think he ever will. He doesn't understand being refused anything. I suppose he never has been before in his life.”
“Weren't you, perhaps, a little bit short?” he hazarded; and she considered the possibility.
“No, I don't think so. I wasn't more abrupt than he was—after a year.” She paused. “He threw out her death—Mrs. Ingram's death—” she forced herself to the name—“quite casually, as if he had been saying, 'By-the-by, the Rector's coming to dine.' If he had wanted me, do you think he would have put it like that?”
“Nevile,” said Chevenix, “would put anything—like anything. He's that sort, you know. He'd take for granted that you understood lots of things which he couldn't express. But I will say this for Nevile. He's not petty. He's fairly large-minded. For instance, I'll bet you what you like he didn't mind your not writing to him—or reproach you with it.”
She opened her eyes. “Of course he didn't. He was perfectly happy. He told me he had been idiotically happy. He knew I was here, because I forwarded his letters—and that was all he cared about. I was here for—when he chose. I assure you he didn't want me at all until I showed him that he couldn't have me.”