“I did it up for you. I thought you’d be pleased. The men had begun before you went away; it seemed a mistake to stop them. I should have lost by it; the builder could have claimed.”
“You’re not going to be married,” she repeated, as if it were too good to be true. “Then, I am not afraid of you. Men are kind and just. They don’t understand; they don’t pet you and croon over you, as a woman does. They talk hard business and look at things from the practical side. You, for example, would urge me to expose him, and I could never do it, never.”
He started.
“Has he got into trouble again? Is he in prison?”
She shook her head.
“Worse—from my point of view. He is married. His lawful wife comes first; he married her before he ever met me. He thought she was dead—I do not blame him for that; it was a mistake. But other things!” She bent forward and took his big, hard hands. “You don’t know what I’ve suffered,” she continued in a quick, passionately vibrant whisper. “Blows! Worse than blows. He constantly urged me to terrible things. There was one man; there were two. The second one told me the truth and offered, in a spirit of superb generosity, to marry me. He wanted me to run away with one—a man I loathed, whose hand I would hardly touch. There are some like that: you couldn’t kiss them, not if you were as free as air, not if they were the only ones in the world. Do you ever feel like that about particular women?”
“I never thought about women—only one.”
“You are different. I think these things out, just for amusement: women do. I imagine what might happen in particular circumstances. He wanted to get rid of me; I was a constant danger. He was tired of me—he never cared, after the first few weeks: no one is indifferent to an absolute novelty. I went away directly I heard he was married. I have never seen him, never heard of him since. Barbara Clutton took me in. This morning I found a periwinkle. You haven’t dug up that patch near the granary?”
“Yes. Everything is altered out there. You’ll see.”
“It reminded me of you. I put on my things and drove straight away to the station, the flower in my hand. I threw it out of the railway carriage window. It had done its work; to bring it with me would have been sentimental, stupid.”