‘Swithin, you don’t love me,’ she said simply.
‘O Viviette!’
‘You don’t love me,’ she repeated.
‘Don’t say it!’
‘Yes, but I will! you have a right not to love me. You did once. But now I am an old woman, and you are still a young man; so how can you love me? I do not expect it. It is kind and charitable of you to come and see me here.’
‘I have come all the way from the Cape,’ he faltered, for her insistence took all power out of him to deny in mere politeness what she said.
‘Yes; you have come from the Cape; but not for me,’ she answered. ‘It would be absurd if you had come for me. You have come because your work there is finished. . . . I like to sit here with my little boy—it is a pleasant spot. It was once something to us, was it not? but that was long ago. You scarcely knew me for the same woman, did you?’
‘Knew you—yes, of course I knew you!’
‘You looked as if you did not. But you must not be surprised at me. I belong to an earlier generation than you, remember.’
Thus, in sheer bitterness of spirit did she inflict wounds on herself by exaggerating the difference in their years. But she had nevertheless spoken truly. Sympathize with her as he might, and as he unquestionably did, he loved her no longer. But why had she expected otherwise? ‘O woman,’ might a prophet have said to her, ‘great is thy faith if thou believest a junior lover’s love will last five years!’