"That is a very pretty speech, but what would you do for my
happiness? Indeed, what is it possible that you should do? I mean it
as no rebuke when I say that my happiness or unhappiness is a matter
as to which you will soon become perfectly indifferent."
"Why should you say so, Lady Laura?"
"Because it is natural that it should be so. You and Mr. Kennedy
might have been friends. Not that you will be, because you are unlike
each other in all your ways. But it might have been so."
"And are not you and I to be friends?" he asked.
"No. In a very few months you will not think of telling me what are
your desires or what your sorrows;--and as for me, it will be out
of the question that I should tell mine to you. How can you be my
friend?"
"If you were not quite sure of my friendship, Lady Laura, you would
not speak to me as you are speaking now." Still he did not look at
her, but lay with his face supported on his hands, and his eyes
turned away upon the lake. But she, where she was sitting, could see
him, and was aided by her sight in making comparisons in her mind
between the two men who had been her lovers,--between him whom she
had taken and him whom she had left. There was something in the hard,
dry, unsympathising, unchanging virtues of her husband which almost
revolted her.
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