‘It’s not fair to ask women to live much in India. Sometimes it’s the children, sometimes it’s ill health, sometimes it’s natural antipathy to the place; there’s always a reason to take them away.’
‘Yes,’ said Madeline, turning a glance of scrutiny on him. His face was impassive; he was watching mechanically for a chance to slay a teasing green spider-fly.
‘That is the beginning of the tragedy I was thinking of. Time does the rest, time and the aridity of separations. How many men and women can hold themselves together with letters? I don’t mean aging or any physical change. I don’t mean change at all.’
‘No,’ said Madeline, and this time, though her curiosity was greater, she did not look at him.
‘No. The mind could accustom itself to expect that, and so forestall the blow, if it really would be a blow, which I doubt. For myself, I’m pretty sure that nothing of that kind could have much effect upon one’s feeling, if it were the real thing.’ He spoke practically to himself, as if he had reasoned this out many times.
‘Oh, no!’ said Madeline.
‘But separation can do a worse thing than that. It can REINTRODUCE people, having deprived them of their mutual illusion under which they married. If they lived together the illusion would go, I suppose, but custom and comfort would step in to prevent a jar. There never would be that awful revelation of indifference.’
He stopped sharply, and the hope went through Madeline’s mind that her face expressed no personal concern for him. There was a small red stain in the brown of his cheek as he looked at her to find out, and he added, ‘I’ve known—in Bombay—one or two bad cases of that. But, of course, it is the wife who suffers most. Shall we canter on?’
‘In a minute,’ said Madeline, and he drew his rein again.
She could not let this be the last word; he must not imagine that she had seen, through the simple crystal of his convictions, the personal situation that gave them to him.