"I'm not sorry," she added. "Sometimes I love Jaffery—because he's so lovable. Sometimes I hate him—because—oh, well—because of Adrian. You can't understand."
"I'm not altogether a fool," said I.
"Well, that's how it is. I would have worn myself to death to try to make him happy. You believe me?"
"I do indeed, my dear," I replied. And I replied with unshakable conviction. She was a woman who once having come under the domination of an idea would obey it blindly, ruthlessly, marching straight onwards, looking neither to right nor left. The very virtue that had made her overcruel to him in the past would have made her overkind to him in the future. Unwittingly she had used a phrase startlingly true. She would have worn herself to death in her determination to please. Incidentally she would have driven him mad with conscientious dutifulness.
"He would have found no fault with me that I could help," she said. "But we needn't speak of it any more. I'm not the woman for him. Liosha is. It's all over. I'm glad. At any rate, I've made atonement—at least, I've tried—as far as things lay in my power."
I took both her hands, greatly moved by her courage.
"And what's going to happen to you, my dear?"
"Now that all this is straight," she replied, with a faint smile, "I can turn round and remake my life. You and Barbara will help."
"With all our hearts," said I.
"It won't be so hard for you, ever again, I promise. I shall be more reasonable. And the first favour I'll ask you, dear Hilary, is to let me go this afternoon. It would be a bit of a strain on me to stay."