“I am sorry to tell you,” he said, in a pleasant and steady voice, “that Marya has not returned.”
“Why––why, I didn’t know she was away–––”
“Yesterday she decided. Later she was good enough to telephone from the Hotel Rajah, where, for the present, she expects to remain.”
“Oh, Vanya!” Palla’s involuntary exclamation brought a trace of colour into his cheeks.
He said: “It is not her fault. She was loyal and truthful. One may not control one’s heart.... And if she is in love––well, is she not free to love him?”
“Who––is––it?” asked Palla faintly.
“Mr. Shotwell, it appears.”
In the dead silence, Vanya passed his hand slowly across his temples; let it drop on his knee.
“Freedom above all else,” he said, “––freedom to love, freedom to cease loving, freedom to love anew.... Well ... it is curious––the scheme of things.... Love must remain inexplicable. For there is no analysis. I think there never could be any man who cared as I have cared, as I do care for her....”
He rose, and to Palla he seemed already a trifle stooped;––it may have been his studio coat, which fitted badly.