“Clarice, Clarice, isn't it wonderful?”
“Wonderful! I thought so when you told me. But already I begin to doubt if it is.”
“To doubt, Clarice?”
“To doubt whether anything a man does is wonderful.”
That was all Clarice said. Then she kissed Betty, and went on playing Chopin feverishly, while Betty told, to the accompaniment of the music, all that was in her heart.
“And,” she said at last, “I love him, Clarice; I love him intensely. I shall always love him.”
Clarice played a final chord and got up.
Bellairs lunched on the dahabeeyah that day and Clarice met him as usual. Her manner gave no sign of any mental disturbance. Perhaps it was curiously calm. He wondered a little, but was too happy to wonder much. Joy made him cruel, for nothing is so cruel as joy. Only he was glad that Clarice had so much pride, for he thought now that in her pride lay his safety. He no longer feared that she would condescend to a scene, and he even thought that perhaps she did not feel so deeply as he had supposed.
“After all,” he said to himself exultantly, “there's no harm done. I need not have been so conscience-stricken. What is a pretty speech and a kiss to a woman who has lived, travelled over the world, read widely, thought many things? Now, if I had treated Betty in such a way I should be a blackguard. She could not have understood. She could only have suffered. I will never hurt her—Betty!”