“No,” generously, “that couldn't be. I'll not find any one. I'll not look.”
“Oh, but you will.”
Already, with the selfishness of her sex, and a selfishness which was greater than that of her sex, she was regretting that she had allowed him to step so easily into the position of a rejected lover.
“I don't want you to think it is going to ruin my life,” he said, quietly, “or anything of that sort.”
An appeal to her pity seemed weak and contemptible.
“I have striven to win what I can't have, what is not for me, and I am satisfied to have made the effort.”
Miss Emory bit her lip. He was going to put her out of his life entirely. It was ended, and he would do his best to forget her with what speed he might, for he loved her, and was too generous to wish her to suffer. This generosity, needless to say, was too altruistic for Constance to fully appreciate its beauties. Indeed, she did not regard it as generosity at all. She resented it. She realized that probably she would not see him again; at least the meeting would not be of his making or choosing. There was to be no sentimental aftermath. He was preparing to go, like the sensible fellow he was, for good and all, and she rebelled against the decree. It seemed brutal and harsh. She was angry, hurt, and offended. Perhaps her conscience was troubling her, too. She knew she was mean and petty.
“I don't think it could have been very serious to you, Mr. Oakley,” she murmured, gazing abstractedly from the window.
“I don't know why you think that. I can't say any more than I have said. It includes all.” She wanted to tell him he gave up too easily.
“At any rate, we are friends,” he added.