"Were you happy while you were with Lorrimer, Ideala?" I asked at last.
She did not answer at once, and when she did, it was almost in a
whisper.
"No, never quite happy till this last time," she said; "never entirely
at ease, even. It was when I left him, when I was alone and could think
of him, that the joy came."
"There was nothing real in your pleasure, then," I went on; "it was
purely imaginary--due to your trick of idealising everything and
everybody, you care for?"
"I do not know," she said.
"Do you think it was the same with him?" I asked again--"I mean all
along. Did it always make him happy to have you there?"
"I cannot tell," she said. "Yes, I think at times he was glad. But a
word would alter his mood, and then he would grow sad and silent."
"Even on the last occasion?"
"No, not on the last occasion. He was happy then"--and she smiled at
the recollection--"ah, so happy! It was like new life to him, he was so
young, so fresh, so glad--like a boy."
"But before, when his moods varied so often, did it ever seem to you
that he was troubled and dissatisfied with himself? that the intimacy
had begun on his part under a misapprehension, and that when he began
to know you better, he had tried to end it, and save you, by not seeing
you on that occasion?"
"Ah, _that occasion_ again!" she ejaculated.
Pages:
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263