"Ah, yes! You got tired of that life. You even preferred trouble to monotony; that's always the way with women."
"Isn't it the way with men also?" I asked, with a smile.
"That was said like Miss Coverdale—you were always fond of putting questions. Well, no; I believe women care more about excitement than we do, that's the truth."
"I don't agree with you," I replied, shaking my head. "But we won't begin one of our old interminable arguments—besides, a good deal of the spirit of contradiction has died out of me. How is Lady Waterville?"
"Very well; and yet I don't know that I ought to say 'very well.' She is far too stout and apathetic to be in perfect health."
"But she has been stout and apathetic for any number of years, and the condition seems to agree with her," I said. "I haven't lost one bit of my old affection for her, Mr. Greystock, although I suppose she never will forgive me."
He laughed, but the pitying look was still in his eyes. "I think she has forgiven you in her heart," he answered. "But sometimes forgiveness is never acknowledged in a lifetime. It is only revealed when death has 'set his seal' upon the lips. Poor Lady Waterville! She has missed you."
My eyes filled with tears; for a moment I could not speak.
"The forsaken are apt to be bitter," he went on. "You have, beyond other women, a power of winning love which is past explaining. Do not be surprised if people get angry at finding that they have been despoiled of your affection—even an unconscious despoiler cannot hope to escape indignation."
"A very unjust indignation," I said, faintly.