"Yes. But if Father hadn't died when he did we should have been safe married. We missed it by a day. Mercier'd have married her two years ago. If I'd had thirty pounds then it couldn't have happened. But I was a damned fool. I should have thought of you then—I should have let everything else go and married you."
Slowly, drop by drop, he drank his misery. But she had savored sorrow so far off that now that the cup was brought to her it had lost half its bitterness.
"You couldn't have done different, even then, dear. Don't worry about me. It's not as if I hadn't been happy with you. I've had you—reelly—Ranny, all these years."
But the happiness that by way of comfort she held out to him was the very dregs of Ranny's cup.
"That's it," he said. "I don't know how it's going to be now. She's the same, somehow, and yet different."
It was his way of expressing the fact that Violet's suffering had given her a soul, and that this soul, this subtler and more inscrutable essence of her, would not necessarily be good. It might even be malignant. Most certainly it would be hostile. It would come between them.
"It's a good thing the children'll be at school now—out of her way."
"P'raps she's better—kinder, p'raps."
"I don't know about that, Winny. I'm afraid. Anyhow, it'll never be the same for you and me."
He paused, and then seeing suddenly the full extent of their calamity, he broke out.