‘I’m so sorry, my dear,’ she said.
‘But I haven’t come here to reproach you with that. I am here because I know, I feel quite certain that in your heart, only you won’t admit it, you love me too.’
Amabelle was startled by this remark. Had she really behaved so badly as to lead him to suppose that this was the case? Or was it just his own vanity? ‘Perhaps you think that because you wish it so much,’ she said kindly.
‘It’s true, it must be true, I know it is. Only you are such an angel that you won’t marry me because you think, quite mistakenly, that it would spoil my life, because you are older than I am and because of –’
‘My international reputation?’ Amabelle was of an age to think of reputation in these terms; in her young days a woman either had a good reputation or an international reputation, and, modern as she was in many ways, she never could quite rid her mind of these nineteenth-century nuances.
‘Yes,’ she went on, ‘I admit that is partly the reason. If I didn’t feel certain that you would soon be very unhappy indeed I suppose I might make the sacrifice of marrying you. But in a short time you would be miserable, your career would be ruined for one thing’ (international reputations and ruined careers went hand-in-hand when Amabelle was young), ‘and besides that it is important for you to have children, and I’m not Sarah, you know, though in many ways a remarkable woman. But don’t you see, Michael dear, that if I were in love with you I shouldn’t consider any of that for five minutes. I’m far too selfish. I’m not in love with you. I like you, I’m fond of you, and we have much in common. All that leads you to suppose that I’m in love with you, so now I must try and make you understand once and for all that I’m not. I’m not. And in any case I’m sick and tired to death of love. You must remember that for years it was my trade, my shop, my profession. Now I’ve retired, left my practice or whatever you like to call it, and I won’t begin all over again. It bores me. I’m not strong enough to face the wear and tear and racket of a new love affair, with all the business of being your wife into the bargain; your relations who would come and see me, rightly as I think, to dissuade me from such a step, the sneers of the newspapers and of my own friends. Why should I be obliged to put up with all these things for something I don’t even want? Because you must see, Michael, that, apart from any other consideration, if I marry you I lose instead of gaining a position. I become neither fish, flesh nor good red herring. In the case of James Fortescue it was quite different; he was an old man of the world when he married me and it was a good bargain for us both. He needed someone to keep his house, amuse his friends and be good company for himself; I needed a home and a name. We were both admirably suited, the best of friends, and, I think, very happy. I certainly was. This case is utterly different; if I married you we should each in our different way lose much of what makes life bearable, but I honestly believe that I should lose more than you would. Anyhow, Michael, I am telling the truth, I swear to you that I am, when I say that nothing would influence me, none of these worldly considerations would prevent me from marrying you tomorrow if I loved you; but I don’t love you. I don’t, I don’t, I don’t. Is it possible that perhaps now at last you understand me?’
After making this speech Amabelle fell back on the sofa with a look of utter exhaustion and there was a long silence between them.
‘Then what is to become of me?’ said Michael bitterly.
‘Oh, my dear, really I don’t know. What does become of people who have been crossed in love? I never have been myself so I can’t say from experience, but I imagine that sooner or later they meet somebody else who attracts them, mentally or physically, et violà! L’affaire est morte, vive l’affaire. In your case let’s hope it will be some nice, pretty girl who will make you very, very happy.’
‘If you speak like that,’ said Michael, ‘it only shows that you can’t understand the meaning of true love. Some people are made so that they can only love once in their lives.’
‘Nobody is,’ said Amabelle firmly. ‘Unless, of course, they live with the person they love all their lives. Permanent and exclusive affection between married people may be possible, but nobody can remain faithful to a person they never see. As for true love, I didn’t believe in that until I met Walter and Sally, but I am really beginning to be very much afraid that in their case it does exist. Maddening, because it upsets all my theories about life.’
‘You promise, then, that you don’t love me at all, and that no argument, no persuasion will ever induce you to marry me?’
‘No, Michael, I don’t love you. I never have loved you and I never shall love you, and nothing that you can say or do will ever make me marry you. And I beg you, from the bottom of my heart, if we are to remain friends, that you won’t bring up this subject any more.’
‘Very well. I won’t speak of it again. No
