It might be morbid luxury of self-torture—Eric had lived through his own nights and days of might-have-beens—, or a despairing effort to recapture him, or a blend of the two, or a connoisseur’s appreciation of dramatic irony; impulse and calculation, sincerity and sensationalism were always curiously intermixed with Barbara.
“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” he answered coldly. “Superstition, if you like... Or vanity... I knew that night that you put something in life before love. You were afraid of Jack, but you never pretended to be in love with him... However, I don’t think these post mortems do any good. Amy Loring tells me that George is in Ireland. Is it true that he’s selling his place there?”
“He would, if he could find any one to buy it. We haven’t very much money. You see, I forfeited mine by marrying a Protestant and I don’t care to go to my family... We may as well have it out, Eric. I married him—dear God! I’d have married any one who spoke a kind word to me when you went away... I’m trying to make him happy, I’m trying to make amends to every one I’ve injured, but it’s rather a long list.”
“I hardly know Ireland at all,” Eric continued in disregard of his emotional cue. “He invited me to Lake House years ago, but I couldn’t afford the time....”
Barbara nodded mechanically, by now unconscious that he was trying to head her off reminiscent dissection, hardly conscious that he had spoken.
“It’s not quite what I expected of life,” she murmured humbly. “But you... Are you happy, Eric?”
“Perfectly, thank you.”
“I’m glad. Time’s a wonderful healer. I always told you to go away and forget me. You said you couldn’t.”
“I haven’t forgotten, but I’ve adjusted some of my values.”
Barbara stole a glance at him and then looked away, with eyes narrowed in pain, over the head of the man opposite her, over the shoulders of the footman, blankly and dizzily into the shadows at the end of the room.