“Take another woman and make her and himself happy.”
“What becomes of the dead wife’s point of view?”
“According to my creed, you know, she’s got no point of view at all.”
“You can’t expect me to follow you there.”
“No; and so I’ll cite your own creed. After the resurrection there shall be no marrying or giving in marriage. She’s no call to be jealous.”
“You’ve no romance about you.”
“No sentimentalism, you mean. Half the feelings consecrated by public opinion are trash. It’s astounding how we do adore the dumps. Happiness is our first duty. It seems to me that one needs more courage to forget than to remember. That’s where I’ve been weak myself.”
Lucian put his hand inside his coat and took out the letter which Farquhar had read; he had been leading up to this point. He spread it open on his knee, showing the thick, chafed, blue paper, the gilded monogram and daisy crest, the thin Italian writing. “I’ve carried that about for nine years,” he said, glancing up, and then held the paper to the fire and watched it catch light. The advancing line of brown, the blue-edged flame, crept across the letter, leaving shrivelled ash in its track. Lucian held it till the heat scorched his fingers, and then let it fall in the fire. “A passionate letter, was it not?” he said, turning from the black, rustling tinder to meet Farquhar’s eyes.
“My dear De Saumarez!”
“Don’t humbug; you read it when you thought I was unconscious.”