Part 35 (2/2)
”What about?”
”That. It isn't any good. It really isn't.”
”Why isn't it? I know I'm rather a queer chap. And I've got an ugly face--”
”I love your _face_....”
She loved it, with its composure and its candour, its slightly flattened features, laid back; its little surprised moustache, its short-sighted eyes and its sadness.
”It's the dearest face. But--”
”I suppose,” he said, ”it sounds a bit startling and sudden. But if you'd been bottling it up as long as I have--Why, I loved you the first time I saw you. On the boat.... So you see, it's you. It isn't just anything you've done.”
”If you knew what I _have_ done, my dear. If you only knew. You wouldn't want to marry me.”
She would have to tell him. That would put him off. That would stop him. If she had loved him she would have had to tell him, as she had told John.
”I'm going to tell you....”
She wondered whether he had really listened. A queer smile played about his mouth. He looked as if he had been thinking of something else all the time.
”What are you smiling at?”
”Your supposing that that would make any difference.”
”Doesn't it?”
”Not a bit. Not a little bit.... Besides I knew it.”
”Who--who told you?”
”The only other person who knew about it, I suppose--Conway.”
”He betrayed me?”
”He betrayed you. Is there any vile thing he didn't do?”
And it was as it had been before. The nuns came out again, bringing the great cups of hot black coffee, coming and going gently. Only this time she couldn't drink.
”It's awful of us,” she said, ”to talk about him this way when he's dead.”
”He isn't dead as long as he makes you feel like that. As long as he keeps you from me.”
A long pause. And then, ”Billy--he wasn't my lover.”
”I know that,” he said fiercely. ”He took good care to tell me.”
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