He stared at me. His mouth hardened; his brow contracted.
"But," I went on, "I want to say this. You remember, Garry, Mother used to tell us of our sister who died when she was a baby. I often used to dream of my dead sister, and in my old, imaginative days I used to think she had never died at all, but she had grown up and was with us. How we would have loved her, would we not, Garry? Well, I tell you this—if our sister had grown up she could have been no sweeter, purer, gentler than this girl of mine, this Berna."
He smiled ironically.
"Then," he said, "if she is so wonderful, why, in the name of Heaven, haven't you married her?"
His manner towards her in the early part of the interview had hurt me, had roused in me a certain perversity. I determined to stand by my guns.
"Garry," I said, "this is—this is Berna"
"Marriage," said I, "isn't everything; often isn't anything. Love is, and always will be, the great reality. It existed long before marriage was ever thought of. Marriage is a good thing. It protects the wife and the children. As a rule, it enforces constancy. But there's a higher ideal of human companionship that is based on love alone, love so perfect, so absolute that legal bondage insults it; love that is its own justification. Such a love is ours."
The ironical look deepened to a sneer.