"My dear Norah," I said, "I've been trying for three years to see as
Viola sees, and feel as Viola feels. But how can I? I'm not Viola."
"But," she said, "you do understand her. If I thought you didn't—if I thought that you could go back on her—and if you go back on Jimmy you go back on her—"
"Well?"
"Well, I don't think I could ever speak to you again."
"My dear child," I said, "you're absurd. I haven't gone back on either of them. Won't it do if I see Jimmy as you see him?"
"Ye-es," she said. "But—I wonder if you do."
"Norah," I said then, "I wonder if Viola's as sorry for him as you are. I hope she isn't."
"She isn't, then. She isn't sorry for him a bit. No more am I. You'll make me sorry for you if you don't take care."
When we went to say good night to Jevons we found Viola sitting on the arm of his chair with the little dish in her hand, feeding him with chocolate nougat. Her posture was one of supple contrition, and we heard her say:
"Cheer up, Jimmy. It doesn't really matter what you do. Nobody would ever take you for more than four years old."