"She had never answered my letters," says Gervase, but he feels that the excuse is a frail one. And how, he thinks, angrily, should a good woman like his cousin, who has never flirted in her life and never done anything which might not have been printed in the daily papers, understand a man's inevitable inconstancy?
"I assure you that I have never loved any woman as I loved her," he continues.
"Then you are another proof, if one were wanted, that men have died and worms have eaten them, but not for——"
"I did not die, certainly," Gervase says, much irritated; "but I suffered greatly, whether you choose to believe it or not."
"I am not inclined to believe it," replies his hostess. "It is not your style."
"I wrote to her a great many times."
He pauses.
Lady Usk fills up the pause. "And she answered you?" she inquires.
"N-no," replies Gervase, unwilling to confess such an affront to him. "She did not write. Prudence, I suppose; or perhaps she might be too closely watched, or her letters might be stopped: who can say?"
"Nobody but herself, clearly. Well?"