“Yes I do. It’s not the loving that’s wrong, but letting my whole life be hung up by it. Letting it absorb me so that I don’t notice other men, so that I can’t bear the thought of marrying anyone else—so that I treat you badly.”
“You haven’t treated me badly, my dear. Get that out of your head at once.”
“I have—because I’ve spoilt our friendship. I couldn’t go on with it when I knew....”
“It’s high time our friendship was spoilt, Stella. It was turning into a silly form of self-indulgence on my side, and it ought to be put an end to. Hang it all! why should I get you talked about?—apart from other considerations. You’ve done me good by withdrawing yourself, because you’ve killed my calf-love. For the last few weeks I’ve loved you as a man ought—I’ve known a man’s love, though it’s been in vain....”
“Oh, Gervase....”
“Don’t think any more about me, dear; you’ve done me nothing but good.”
She had hidden her face in the arm of the chair, and he suddenly saw that he must leave her. Since she did not love him, his own love was not enough to make him less of an intruder. There were dozens of questions he wanted to ask her—answers he longed to know. But he must not. He rose and touched her shoulder.
“I’m going, my dear. It’s nearly time for Adoration. I shan’t come back next Sunday—and later, next year, I’ll be going away ... don’t fret ... it’ll all be quite easy.”
It wasn’t easy now. She held out one hand without lifting her head, and for a moment they held each other’s hands in a fierce clasp of farewell. He felt her hot, moist palm burning against his, then dropped it quickly and went out.
So that was the end. He had finished it. But Stella herself had taught him that one did not so easily finish love. He supposed that he would go on loving her as she had gone on loving Peter.