I was twisting my gloves out of all recognition. There was a singing
in my ears which did not come from the stage.
"Look at it as I do, Jack. There is a man in this world whom I shall
love, and who will love me. We may never meet. Then he shall be an
ideal to me, and I to him. You believe you love me, but the love you
offer is not complete."
"Not complete?" I echoed.
"No. It would be if I returned it. Do you understand? There is in
this world a woman you will truly love and who will return your love in
its fulness. Will you meet? That is in the hands of your destinies.
Shall I meet my ideal? Who knows? But till I do, I shall remain an
old maid."
I nodded wearily. A dissertation on affinities seemed ill-timed.
"And now," she said, "this beautiful friendship of ours must come to an
end." And there were tears in her eyes.
"Yes," said I, twisting and untwisting the shreds of my gloves. It
seemed as though the world had slipped from under my feet and I was
whirling into nothingness. "My heart is very heavy."
"Jack, if you talk like that," hastily, "you will have me crying before
all these people."
Unfortunately Ethel turned and saw the tears in her cousin's eyes.
"Mercy! what is the matter?" she asked.
"Jack has been telling me a very pathetic story," said Phyllis, with a
pity in her eyes.
"Yes; something that happened to-night," said I, staring at the
programme, but seeing nothing, nothing.
"Well," said Ethel, "this is not the place for them," turning her eyes
to the stage again.
The concluding acts of the opera were a jangle of chords and discords,
and the hum of voices was like the murmur of a far-off sea. My eyes
remained fixed upon the stage. It was like looking through a broken
kaleidoscope. I wanted to be alone, alone with my pipe. I was glad
when we at last entered the carriage. Mrs. Wentworth immediately began
to extol the singers, and Phyllis, with that tact which is given only
to kind-hearted women, answered most of the indirect questions put to
me. She was giving me time to recover. The direct questions I could
not avoid. Occasionally I looked out of the window. It had begun to
rain again. It was very dreary.
"And what a finale, Mr. Winthrop!" cried Mrs. Wentworth, "Yes, indeed," I replied. To have loved and lost, and such a woman,
was my thought.