“I think you’re wise. It’s just as well not to try to alter more of his life than you can help.”
“I don’t want to alter his life. I’m quite persuaded that his life is better than mine. And as for him not having our taste, or rather a different kind of bad taste from what we’ve got—it doesn’t matter. I’ve made up my mind I must take Ben as he comes and as a whole, and not try to ignore or alter bits of him. I’m going to do the thing properly—make his friends my friends, pour out tea for the old ladies of Icklesham, ask the farmers who call round on business to stay to dinner or supper, go to see them at their farms and make friends with their wives. I know I can do it if only I do it thoroughly and don’t make any reservations. Of course I’ll go on being friends with our set if they’ll let me, but if they won’t, it’s they who’ll have to go and not the others. Gervase, I’m sick of Jenny Alard, and I’m thankful that she’s going to die early next year, and a new creature called Jenny Godfrey take her place.”
“My dear, you’re going to be very happy.”
“I know I am. I’m going to be the only happy Alard.”
“The only one?”
“Yes—look at the others. There’s Doris, a dreary middle-aged spinster, trodden on by both the parents, and always regretting the lovers she turned down because they weren’t good enough for the family. There’s Mary, living alone in private hotels and spending all her money on clothes; there’s Peter, who’s married a rich girl who’s too clever for him, and who—worst of all—thinks he’s happy and has become conventional. No—I can’t help it—I pity them all.”
“And what about me, Jenny? You’ve left me out. Do you pity me?”
She had ignored him deliberately—perhaps because she did not quite know where to place him.
“O Gervase, I hope you’ll be happy—I’m sure you will, because you’re different from the rest.”
“Yes, I’m sure too. I’m going to be happy—as happy as you. I don’t quite know how”—and he gave her a wry smile—“but I know that I shall be.”