"If it hadn't been for Delia, I should have died—not with my body, but my mind. She could not give me back the things that I had lost. She took me away instead. She let me see, not that the thing that I had sought was not worth seeking, but simply that there were other things in life. To fail just in this one thing was not failure. A perfect marriage is a splendid thing, but that does not mean that the second best thing is an imperfect marriage."
"I know," he said. "I know. Look here, I'm sorry, Muriel. I'd no idea what a rotten time you'd had. But now, forget it. We'll make our marriage perfect."
"Dear Godfrey," said Muriel, "if you'd asked me to marry you any time during the past twelve years until last winter, I would have married you, without hesitation. And we should both have made a great mistake."
"No, no," he said, "not we."
"Oh, yes, we should. That time you came to me in London—I'd never seen you before—only a sort of legend of my dreams. You're a dear, Godfrey. I like you immensely. And you'll make some wife very happy yet—but not me——"
"But why on earth?"
"Because—of—every reason. It's too late."
"Do you care for someone else?" he asked sharply.
"No. Not that way. Please, I want you to understand." She smiled suddenly. "This isn't a devastating experience, you know. You like me, but not more than you could like lots of women."
"That's not true."