‘I wish it were possible,’ he groaned. ‘For her sake, even more than yours.’
Forster leant over the table, and continued in rapid, eager tones.
‘If she loves another man, tell me, and I shall be satisfied. I don’t want to know his name, but if he is poor let me make him rich. More than anything in the world, even more than my own happiness, I seek her welfare. I love her, White, and mine is not a selfish love.’
‘You are wrong, dear friend. She loves no one else. Poor child! She has never known what love is, and she never will know it.’
Something in White’s manner at last awoke the other’s suspicion and wonder. The face of the poor fellow was so utterly forlorn, his words and gestures so extraordinary, that Forster began to share his agitation.
‘There is some mystery. Cannot I know it?’ ‘Impossible. But you are right.’
‘Does it concern Madeline herself?’
‘Yes.’
‘Her friends and relations?’
‘No.’