The bluntness of the question did not seem to disturb her. She was not
sorry, in fact, that he had asked it. She let her work lie upon her
knee, and leaned back in her low garden chair, her hands resting upon
its wicker arms. She turned on him a clear unprejudiced gaze.
"I came to see Rosy. I have always been very fond of her. I did not
believe that she had forgotten how much we had loved her, or how
much she had loved us. I knew that if I could see her again I should
understand why she had seemed to forget us."
"And when you saw her, you, of course, decided that I had behaved, to
quote my own words--like a blackguard and a fool."
"It is, of course, very rude to say you have behaved like a fool,
but--if you'll excuse my saying so--that is what has impressed me very
much. Don't you know," with a moderation, which singularly drove itself
home, "that if you had been kind to her, and had made her happy, you
could have had anything you wished for--without trouble?"
This was one of the unadorned facts which are like bullets. Disgustedly,
he found himself veering towards an outlook which forced him to admit
that there was probably truth in what she said, and he knew he heard
more truth as she went on.
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