Poor little Eleanor! Poor humanity!
"It is a mistake to rely too much on love," says Major Short. "It sometimes fails us, and then——"
He pauses, seeing the look of pain upon Eleanor's face.
"I was speaking of myself," he adds half apologetically. "Look for instance, at my parents, at home in the old country. What good is their affection now? What use am I to them, stuck here in India? True, we correspond, but letters give us no sight of the familiar face, no kiss from the lips that may be dead and cold before we meet again. But love, Mrs. Quinton, is over for ever in my life, it is a memory alone, a dream of the silent past."
Eleanor's eyes are deeply sympathetic; she is a woman to inspire confidence.
Major Short continues, though he is surprised at himself for so doing:
"Yes, I was in love once, it was the one sincere and overruling passion of my life." He lowers his voice as he speaks. "You brought it back to me when you said that all your interests were centred in your husband."
He holds out a little case to Eleanor.
"I always carry this about with me; it is her portrait. Look at it."
Eleanor opens the case reverently, and gazes with a certain awe at the beautiful face within. She fancies there is a mystery in the far-away expression of the woman's eyes. But, after all, it is only the mystery of death.