Teresa disengaged her hand, folded her work, and turned a resolutely composed face.
“Why need we say anything at all?”
“Why?” He stared at her in perplexity. “You ask me that when you know... you have seen...”
“I must forget. We must both forget. I mustn’t judge you for... for what happened then. I think it will be best if we never speak of it again.”
Peignton was silent, stricken dumb by amazement, and the paralysing feeling of helplessness which Grizel had experienced at a similar moment. The crass certainty of Teresa’s common sense appeared at this moment the most baffling of barriers. He stared at her hopelessly for a long minute, before making his reply.
“That is impossible. There could be no peace for either of us. In justice to myself, I must explain. It seems an extraordinary thing to say, but it is the simple truth that until I came down here—until a couple of days ago, I did not know that I loved Lady Cassandra. Only yesterday morning I had decided to make an excuse to go home, to put myself out of temptation; then, an hour later, I saw her, as it seemed, dying before my eyes, and I forgot everything else. It was wrong, of course, confoundedly unkind,—humiliating for you. I apologise with all my soul, Teresa, but can’t you see how inevitable it was?”
“If you loved her in the first instance, I suppose it was inevitable,” said Teresa steadily. “But you were engaged to me.” She lifted her eyes with a reproachful glance. “You chose me. You said you loved me... All these weeks we have gone on peacefully, without a hitch. I never noticed any change. As you insist on talking about it, I should like to understand one thing.—Is it that you grew tired of me? Was I different from what you expected? When did you stop—caring for me at all?”
“My dear, I have not stopped! I do care. You have been all that is sweet and kind. I tell you honestly that I care for you more, not less, than when we were first engaged.”
“Then—Why? I don’t understand!”
“Ah, Teresa, neither did I... That’s the pity of it. It was a mistake from the beginning. I was lonely, and I wanted a wife, and I liked you better than any of the other girls. I was honestly fond of you, dear. I am now,—but, Teresa! it was affection, not love. I had no idea what that meant.—It is only the last few days that I have known... There is a world of difference between the two things.”