“You don’t care for that other woman?” she asked, ignoring his question.
“You know that too. You know I don’t.”
“And—you can’t live alone?” she spoke almost in a whisper so that he could scarcely catch her words.
“That’s just it. I can’t bear being alone now. I used not to mind it a bit, but somehow I seem to have been changing lately—since I found out that Agatha couldn’t be a real companion to me. I never wanted one before; I suppose thinking I had found one and finding I had not, has made me long for one. So—don’t blame me too much.”
“I’m not blaming you,” she said fiercely almost. “You don’t think I’m preaching to you?—don’t think that. How little you know of me! I suppose you imagine I’m a cold-blooded saint? I’m not. I’m a woman. I can forgive any man, or any woman either, anything that they do for love, real love. But—women like the one you were with last night I can’t forgive—they’re pests, beasts themselves and making beasts of others. Is that the kind of thing you expected me to say? I can see it isn’t.”
West did not answer. He was utterly amazed at his complete ignorance of one he believed he knew well.
“You’ve never—really understood what love means,” she went on; “I sometimes think that only women do.”
“You’re wrong there, Alice. I, for one, know. Only—only, I found out too late. I did not find out until after I was married and the woman I love—well—you understand. I’ve got what I don’t want and I can’t get what I do.”
“You’re not a coward?”
“A coward? I hope not. One never knows.”