“Do not speak of her!” impatiently. “No doubt she is dead, but you ought to have got a divorce from her long ago. Do you not see that Louise Barry is dying for you?”
“Nonsense,” he replied curtly. “I see nothing of the kind.”
“You must certainly have observed a change in her,” persisted Mrs. Laurens.
“Yes, her beauty is fading as might be expected. She must be almost thirty,” he replied cynically.
“She is five years younger than you, at least,” reprovingly. “And she might have been married long ago. She has had suitors enough. But I believe she has loved you all the time.”
“Nonsense!” he said again.
“But, Cecil, you would be so much happier if you married again, and you would please us all if you took Louise.”
“I would do much to please you, mother, but not this. I shall never love again. My heart’s wealth was poured out on my false young wife, and all its powers were wasted. If you wish me to stay with you, leave me at peace on this subject. I never expect to marry again,” he answered, sadly but decisively.
Mrs. Laurens sighed deeply, and looked out of the window of the library where they were sitting together.
To change the conversation she said carelessly: