“Not at all,” Glyde said, who knew nothing of Mary. “It's a law of Nature. The woman follows the man. I suppose you treated her as an equal?”
“No, as a superior, which she plainly was,” said Senhouse.
“Then,” Glyde said, looking at him, “then you made her so. If you fly against Nature, you must get the worst of it.” He waited, then asked, “It's against your principles to marry a woman, no doubt.”
“Quite,” Senhouse said. “It seems to me an insult to propose it to her.”
“Your Mary didn't think so.”
“She did at first; but she couldn't get used to it.”
“She felt naked without the ring? And ashamed?”
“God help me,” said Senhouse, “that's true. The moment I realised what had happened, I gave in.”
“And then she refused?”
“She neither accepted nor refused. She lived apart. We were in Germany at the time. I was naturalising plants for the Grand Duke of Baden—filling the rocks and glades in the Black Forest. She went into an hotel in Donaueschingen, and I went to see her every day. We were friends. Then we went to England, to London. She held to that way of life, and I did the best I could for myself. At any moment I would have taken her. I considered myself bound in every way. I could have been happy with her. She had great charm for me—great physical charm, I mean—and sweet, affectionate ways. I could have made her a wife and a mother.