'Why will you always go back to that question?' he asked, and his tone
showed how much he resented it. 'You cannot unlive your life. Don't
make me say more than that, for you don't know how it hurts to say that
much. Indeed you don't!' He went to the closed window and looked out, turning away from her. She
stretched out her hand and pulled at his coat timidly, as a dog pulls
his master's clothes to attract his attention. He turned his head a
little.
'I've tried to live differently, Tom,' she said. 'Of late years I've
tried.' Her voice was low and unsteady.
'I know it,' he said just above a whisper, and he turned to the
window-pane again.
'Can't you forgive me, Tom?' she asked pitifully. 'Won't you take some
of the money--only what I made by singing?' He shook his head without looking round, for it would have hurt him to
see her eyes just then.
'I have enough, mother,' he answered. 'I make as much as I need.' 'You will need much more when you marry.' 'I shall never marry.' 'You will marry little Miss Donne,' said Madame Bonanni, after a
moment's pause.
Lushington turned sharply now, and leaned back against the glass.
'No,' he answered, with sudden hardness, 'I can't ask Miss Donne to be
my wife. No man in my position could have the right. You understand
what I mean, and heaven knows I don't wish to pain you, mother--I'd
give anything not to! Why do you talk of these things?' 'Because I feel that you're unhappy, Tom, and I know that I am--and
there must be some way out of it. After all, my dear--now don't be
angry!--Miss Donne is a good girl--she's all that I wish I had
been--but after all, she's going to be an opera-singer. You are the son
of an artist and I don't see why any artist should not marry you. The
public believes we are all bad, whether we are or not.' 'I'm not thinking of the public,' Lushington answered. 'I don't care a
straw what the world says. If I had been offered my choice I would not
have changed my name at all.' 'But then, my dear, what in the world are you thinking of?' asked the
prima donna, evidently surprised by what he said. 'If the girl loves
you, do you suppose she will care what I've done?' 'But I care!' cried Lushington with sudden vehemence. 'I care, for her
sake!' Madame Bonanni's hand had disappeared within the furs again, after she
had ascertained that the two tears were not going to run down her
cheeks. Her large face wore the expression of a coloured sphinx, and
there was something Egyptian about the immobility of her eyes and her
painted eyebrows. No one could have guessed from her look whether she
were going to cry or laugh the next time she spoke. Lushington walked
up and down the room without glancing at her.