I consented, hopelessly, and went.
Ideala was standing in a window, looking out listlessly. She was very pale, and I could see that she had been weeping. I sat down near the fire; and presently she came and sat on the floor beside me, and laid her head against my knee. In all the years of my love for her she had never been so close to me before, and I was glad to let her rest a long, long time like that.
"Were you happy while you were with Lorrimer, Ideala?" I asked at last.
She did not answer at once, and when she did, it was almost in a whisper.
"No, never quite happy till this last time," she said; "never entirely at ease, even. It was when I left him, when I was alone and could think of him, that the joy came."
"There was nothing real in your pleasure, then," I went on; "it was purely imaginary—due to your trick of idealising everything and everybody, you care for?"
"I do not know," she said.
"Do you think it was the same with him?" I asked again—"I mean all along. Did it always make him happy to have you there?"
"I cannot tell," she said. "Yes, I think at times he was glad. But a word would alter his mood, and then he would grow sad and silent."
"Even on the last occasion?"