"I don't know whether he was or not—I never saw him." His manner was beginning to be impatient again.
"Tell me one thing more," she said, after a moment's hesitation; "do you love her very much?"
He looked at her almost resentfully. "I fail to see your right to ask that question," he said; "but, since you have done so, I will certainly tell you that I care for her more than I do for any other woman in the world."
"Gerald!" she cried, and burst into tears again; "I feel that you have never forgiven me—that you will always despise me."
"This is nonsense," he said; "and I don't understand what you are driving at. We broke off with each other years ago. You married another man, and presumably you were very happy with him. I married another woman, and am very happy with her, and there is nothing more to be said."
She got up and stood with her back to the dull, smouldering fire; it had been allowed to get low, for the day had been like a summer one.
"Just like you men," she exclaimed, with a little laugh and a sudden change of manner. "You are curious creatures; sometimes I wonder if you are anything more than superior animals. Shake hands, old boy, and let us be friends. We are middle-aged people, both of us. Look at my gray hair." She bent her head almost gayly, and put her finger along a narrow line—"Rather too late for sentiment, isn't it?"
"Yes, I think it is," he was surprised, but distinctly relieved. "Now perhaps you'll tell me when it was that Cyril wrote to you?"
"About two months ago. Poor old chap, his marriage wasn't up to much—ei—ther." She checked the last word and finished it with a gasp. "Awful pity, you know, to marry a woman from a music-hall. Lucky they haven't any children, isn't it?"
"Perhaps it is, on the whole."