Sir H. She died abroad? Then you were never reconciled?
Tom. Reconciliation was impossible. I should prefer to say no more about it, (crosses to Sir Humphrey, L.) but I am bound to satisfy you I was not to blame. Those were the last words my wife wrote to me. (gives a letter to Sir Humphrey)
Sir H. (reads) “Tom,—I love another more than I love you. Isn’t it best that we should say good-bye? I have no right to tell you I will never see you, for the fault is mine; but if I do, it will be only painful, and I leave it to your magnanimity to go away from me for ever.” (returns letter to Tom) Enough, Mr. Potter. (rises) There was a time when I disapproved of second marriages. They struck me as a species of inconstancy. But as one grows in years, these sentimental notions lose their force. One begins to realise the loneliness of life. You understand me?
Tom. Perfectly. The need of a companion.
Sir H. More than a companion—the need of a—of a—I want a word.
Tom. Nurse is the word you want.
Sir H. No, sir! It is the very word I do not want.
Tom. I beg your pardon, I misunderstood you.
Sir H. Strange as it may sound, what you’ve just told me makes my task a little easier. Miss Preston also has a history. Her mother died when she was quite a child. Her father was my very oldest friend, whom I respected beyond everything, and it was only on his death, when I felt I could not repudiate the guardianship I’d undertaken, that I made a discovery which shocked me inexpressibly. I tell it you in confidence; I have told no one but my son, whom it was my duty to put upon his guard. Of course it puts an end to the proposal you have made, but, as a man of honour, I am bound to tell you.