The memory
of that marriage had been a painful thing to him, even before he
had known the whole truth of its results. The man had been a common
adventurer and scoundrel, despite the facts of good birth and the air of
decent breeding. If a man who was as much a scoundrel, but cleverer--it
would be necessary that he should be much cleverer--made the best of
himself to Betty----! It was folly to think one could guess what a
woman--or a man, either, for that matter--would love. He knew Betty, but
no man knows the thing which comes, as it were, in the dark and claims
its own--whether for good or evil. He had lived long enough to see
beautiful, strong-spirited creatures do strange things, follow strange
gods, swept away into seas of pain by strange waves.
"Even Betty," he had said to himself, now and then. "Even my Betty. Good
God--who knows!"
Because of this, he had read each letter with keen eyes. They were long
letters, full of detail and colour, because she knew he enjoyed them.
She had a delightful touch. He sometimes felt as if they walked the
English lanes together. His intimacy with her neighbours, and her
neighbourhood, was one of his relaxations. He found himself thinking of
old Doby and Mrs.
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