“And you’re not yet thirty!,” I groaned.
Barbara glanced at her watch and stood up:
“It’s time for me to go to bed. I’m afraid I’ve talked a great deal about myself. It was thinking about Bertrand that started it. The world is divided into men, women and Oakleighs.”
“I believe you’ll find, as you go on, that every husband begins as a man and ends as an Oakleigh. That is one of the major tragedies of life.”
For the first time in eighteen months, Barbara bent to kiss my cheek.
“To marry an Oakleigh and find him a man would be the greatest romance life could offer,” she laughed.
“Then I’m afraid you must look elsewhere for your romance,” I sighed. “You can only give out what’s in you. I’m sorry our marriage has been a failure. I’ve honestly done my best.” . . .
Turning at the door, Barbara came slowly back and kissed me again:
“I know you have. And I’ll do mine. I told you the day poor old Bertrand died that I’d be your wife, I’d bear you children if I could . . .”
In spite of her kisses, in spite of the strange new light in her eyes, I had to be told in words that our two years’ tragedy was over: