"What have you been thinking of so seriously all evening?" she asked.
"I've been wondering," said Peter, "whether a man whose heart is committed, in spite of himself, to a hopeless love, has any right to marry."
Charlotte did not answer at once; she stirred, moved deeper into protecting shadow. "That depends, I believe, on whether he's sure that the love his heart is committed to is really hopeless—will be hopeless always," she replied finally.
"In the case I was considering—the man is sure of that."
"Then he would get over his unfortunate love in time—wouldn't he? Ill-fated love does not often last forever. Life—life is more merciful than that, isn't it?"
It was his chance with her; he realized that she was giving it to him—giving it to him understandingly and deliberately. He had only to agree that an "ill-fated" love—that his ill-fated love—would die at last. But he could not take his chance like that. He could not be less than honest with her.
"He would never get over it altogether," he said. "The woman he could not marry would always be—dearest to him. And, granting that, would it be fair for him to ask another woman to take what was left of—of his affection? Would it be fair to ask her to take—a spoiled life?"
"She might feel that what was left of his life was well worth having—the woman he could marry. She might feel that—even if he had suffered much, missed what he supremely wanted—his life need not be spoiled after all. She might feel that she could prevent its being spoiled. If he were frank with her, and she felt like that about it, I think it would be fair for him to marry her—perfectly honorable and fair."
"It could not be happiness for her," argued Peter.
"Perhaps not. Perhaps she could do without happiness."