“Pembroke, you know, is already deeply in debt. He cannot readily accommodate himself to the style of provincial living here. He would say all these things are trifles. I tell you, Olivia Berkeley, they are not trifles. They are second nature. Is it not cruel of God to make us so dependent on these wretched things? It was for these same wretched things that I endured torture for years—for money and clothes and carriages—just such things as that.”
Olivia by a great effort recovered herself.
“What you say is true, Madame Koller. But I will not—how can you ask me such things about a man who has never—never”—she stopped at a loss to express her meaning, which implied a reproach at Madame Koller’s want of delicacy.
Madame Koller made a gesture of impatience.
“What are promises?” she cried. “Nevertheless, I want you to see that if you marry Pembroke it will be his ruin. It would be most wicked selfishness.”
“Madame Koller,” answered Olivia, rising, “I will not listen to any more.”
“I have nothing more to say,” responded Madame Koller, rising too, and drawing her cloak around her. “I did not expect more from you than conventional tolerance. Had you a heart you would have felt for me—for him—for yourself. Can you conceive of anything more noble, or more piteous than two women, one of whom must make a great sacrifice for the man they both love—come, you need not deny it, or lose your temper—because I see you have a temper.” Olivia’s air and manner did certainly indicate dangerous possibilities. “I repeat, of two women as we are, the one makes the sacrifice—the other feels it to the quick. You talk though like a boarding-school miss. You might have got all the phrases you have used out of a book of deportment.”
“I am as sincere as you are, Madame Koller,” answered Olivia, in a voice of restrained anger. “I cannot help it that I am more reserved. I could no more say what you have said—” here a deep flush came into Olivia’s face—“than I could commit murder.”
Madame Koller stood up, and as she did so, she sighed deeply. Olivia, for the first time, felt sorry for her.
“Women who love are foolish, desperate, suicidal—anything. I do not think that you could ever love.”