“Mr. Durant, you are unkind—you are ungenerous!”
“Not so—not so; but I am older and a little wiser. And according to the custom of mortal things, this enlightenment comes just when it is most painful to me—most bitter to realise.”
“I cannot hear you say so,” Lucy said, getting up trembling from her chair. “Difference—what difference? I know none. I never have been told of any.”
And he looked at her all quivering with the desire to say more—to set open the doors of his heart, and show her herself in it, and all that was there. He looked at her, and shook his head sadly.
“I have no right to say any more. I would be a poor creature if I said any more; but still it is so—and it is better for me to go away. You will not misunderstand me? That would be the cruellest of all.”
“I think there is one thing more cruel,” said Lucy with an impulse which carried her away, and for which she could not forgive herself afterwards, “and that is to speak mysteries to your friends, and expect them to understand you, yet never tell them what you mean—that is the thing that is most cruel.”
“Should I speak then, though it is hopeless—though it is almost dishonourable?” he cried excited and breathless. Lucy trembling, turned half, yet but half away.
“Ah! you are here then! I have been looking for you,” said the voice of Lady Curtis at the door. “You are talking to Lucy who has a letter to write, and I have something to say to you, Lewis—come to me here.”
Lucy had gone back to her writing before her mother stopped speaking; she did not even look at him again; but she said very low, “I think I understand,” as he passed her slowly to obey that call.