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Page 82
"Laugh at love?" asked Philip.
"Yes. Pull it to pieces. Tell me I'm a fool or
worse--that he's a cad. Say all you said when Lilia fell in
love with him. That's the help I want. I dare tell you
this because I like you--and because you're without passion;
you look on life as a spectacle; you don't enter it; you
only find it funny or beautiful. So I can trust you to cure
me. Mr. Herriton, isn't it funny?" She tried to laugh
herself, but became frightened and had to stop. "He's not a
gentleman, nor a Christian, nor good in any way. He's never
flattered me nor honoured me. But because he's handsome,
that's been enough. The son of an Italian dentist, with a
pretty face." She repeated the phrase as if it was a charm
against passion. "Oh, Mr. Herriton, isn't it funny!" Then,
to his relief, she began to cry. "I love him, and I'm not
ashamed of it. I love him, and I'm going to Sawston, and if
I mayn't speak about him to you sometimes, I shall die."
In that terrible discovery Philip managed to think not
of himself but of her. He did not lament. He did not even
speak to her kindly, for he saw that she could not stand
it. A flippant reply was what she asked and
needed--something flippant and a little cynical. And indeed
it was the only reply he could trust himself to make.
"Perhaps it is what the books call 'a passing fancy'?"
She shook her head. Even this question was too
pathetic. For as far as she knew anything about herself,
she knew that her passions, once aroused, were sure. "If I
saw him often," she said, "I might remember what he is
like. Or he might grow old. But I dare not risk it, so
nothing can alter me now."
"Well, if the fancy does pass, let me know." After all,
he could say what he wanted.
"Oh, you shall know quick enough--"
"But before you retire to Sawston--are you so mighty sure?"
"What of?" She had stopped crying. He was treating her
exactly as she had hoped.
"That you and he--" He smiled bitterly at the thought of
them together. Here was the cruel antique malice of the
gods, such as they once sent forth against Pasiphae.
Centuries of aspiration and culture--and the world could not
escape it. "I was going to say--whatever have you got in
common?"
"Nothing except the times we have seen each other."
Again her face was crimson. He turned his own face away.
"Which--which times?"
"The time I thought you weak and heedless, and went
instead of you to get the baby. That began it, as far as I
know the beginning. Or it may have begun when you took us
to the theatre, and I saw him mixed up with music and
light. But didn't understand till the morning. Then you
opened the door--and I knew why I had been so happy.
Afterwards, in the church, I prayed for us all; not for
anything new, but that we might just be as we were--he with
the child he loved, you and I and Harriet safe out of the
place--and that I might never see him or speak to him again.
I could have pulled through then--the thing was only coming
near, like a wreath of smoke; it hadn't wrapped me round."
"But through my fault," said Philip solemnly, "he is
parted from the child he loves. And because my life was in
danger you came and saw him and spoke to him again." For
the thing was even greater than she imagined. Nobody but
himself would ever see round it now. And to see round it he
was standing at an immense distance. He could even be glad
that she had once held the beloved in her arms.
"Don't talk of 'faults.' You're my friend for ever, Mr.
Herriton, I think. Only don't be charitable and shift or
take the blame. Get over supposing I'm refined. That's
what puzzles you. Get over that."
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