She smiled.
"And how is one to know whether it would be—permanent?"
"Through experience and failure," he answered quickly, "we learn to distinguish the reality when it comes. It is unmistakable."
"Suppose it comes too late?" she said, forgetting the ancient verse inscribed in her youthful diary: "Those who walk on ice will slide against their wills."
"To admit that is to be a coward," he declared.
"Such a philosophy may be fitting for a man," she replied, "but for a woman—"
"We are no longer in the dark ages," he interrupted. "Every one, man or woman, has the right to happiness. There is no reason why we should suffer all our lives for a mistake."
"A mistake!" she echoed.
"Certainly," he said. "It is all a matter of luck, or fate, or whatever you choose to call it. Do you suppose, if I could have found fifteen years ago the woman to have made me happy, I should have spent so much time in seeking distraction?"
"Perhaps you could not have been capable of appreciating her—fifteen years ago," suggested Honora. And, lest he might misconstrue her remark, she avoided his eyes.