"Some of us demand a love that will make marriage easy, smooth for our temper, flattering to our vanity. Some demand"—and here there was a touch of passion in his voice that made May's heart heavy and sick—"they demand that it should be made easy to be faithful."
And she gave no answer.
"Isn't it our business to accept the circumstances of life, love among them, and refuse either to be shaped by them or shattered by them? But you will accuse me of being hyper-critical at a tea-party, of arguing on ethics when I should have been thinking of—of nothing particular."
This was his Apologia. After this there would be silence. He would be Gwendolen's husband. May tried to gather up all her self-possession.
"You don't agree with me?" he asked to break her obstinate silence.
She could hear Robinson coming in. He put up the lights, and out of the obscurity flashed the face of the portrait almost to the point of speech.
"Do you mean that one ought and can live in marriage without help and without sympathy?" she asked, and her voice trembled a little.
He answered, "I mean that. May I quote you lines that you probably know, lines of a more strenuous character than that line from 'Becket.'" And he quoted—
"'For even the purest delight may pall,
And power must fail, and the pride must fall,
And the love of the dearest friends grow small,
But the glory of the Lord is all in all.'"
They could hear the swish of the heavy curtains as Robinson pulled them over the windows.