“God simply has not put enough excuses into the world to meet the crimes of the world.” The words burst out of him. “And this is even worse, because it is a crime so big that there’s simply no punishment been made to meet it. It’s just betrayal....” And the force of that mediæval word, its ultimate meaning, broke him down. Hugo Carr sobbed.
“O my God, it’s beastly, beastly! Poor old Ralph, down in that room, alone. Betrayed—by his best friend and his wife—and suspecting at last that he had been betrayed, only suspecting it—and not able to bear the suspicion. That’s the horrible part of it—don’t you see, Joan, don’t you see? How could he bear it—dear old Ralph, who has never suspected any one in his life? He simply wasn’t made that way. And so.... Oh, my God, while we were making love up here, we who’ve quibbled for two years whether we would hurt his feelings or not—his feelings! We’ve killed old Ralph....”
Her eyes were on him, but he saw nothing but the ruin of the ideal idea, and an odd little curve crept about her mouth. Perhaps it was from an odd little curve like that about the lips of a young princess of olden time that there sprang the many tales of young princesses who loved yet lashed their lovers. It was not contemptuous, it was much too little a curve for that. It was supremely dignified. Mona Lisa has it, though some say that Mona Lisa smiles. If Mary Stuart had seen the portrait of Mona Lisa she would have whispered: “She is thinking that men are but minutes in a woman’s life, and she is right.”
“Hugo!”
But when he looked at her it was as though he was still looking at ruins.
“It is not fair to us to say we’ve killed him. And it’s childish. Life killed him, Hugo! And you are not more sorry than I—who have tried so hard for eight years to make life sweet for him. Oh, my God, how I’ve tried!”
He thought out aloud, softly: “You are a marvellous woman, Joan!”
“It’s only,” she said gently, “that I know what is worth while to me and you don’t. That must make life very difficult for you....” That is all she said, and Hugo Carr stared at her, bewilderment joining the fever in his eyes.
“What do you mean, Joan?” he asked, miserably bewildered. Hugo Carr couldn’t bear not understanding things.
A few yards separated them; and Joan crossed swiftly to him, and she took his arm and held it very tight. Some people said that Joan’s hands were almost too thin, but what they held they held very tightly.