"History!" she answered; "I once told Uncle Jolyon that love was for
ever. Well, it isn't. Only aversion lasts."
Jolyon stared at her. Had she got over Bosinney at last?
"Yes!" he said, "aversion's deeper than love or hate because it's a
natural product of the nerves, and we don't change them."
"I came to tell you that Soames has been to see me. He said a thing that
frightened me. He said: 'You are still my wife!'"
"What!" ejaculated Jolyon. "You ought not to live alone." And he
continued to stare at her, afflicted by the thought that where Beauty
was, nothing ever ran quite straight, which, no doubt, was why so many
people looked on it as immoral.
"What more?"
"He asked me to shake hands.
"Did you?"
"Yes. When he came in I'm sure he didn't want to; he changed while he
was there."
"Ah! you certainly ought not to go on living there alone."
"I know no woman I could ask; and I can't take a lover to order, Cousin
Jolyon."
"Heaven forbid!" said Jolyon. "What a damnable position! Will you stay
to dinner? No? Well, let me see you back to town; I wanted to go up this
evening."
"Truly?"
"Truly. I'll be ready in five minutes."
On that walk to the station they talked of pictures and music,
contrasting the English and French characters and the difference in
their attitude to Art. But to Jolyon the colours in the hedges of the
long straight lane, the twittering of chaffinches who kept pace with
them, the perfume of weeds being already burned, the turn of her neck,
the fascination of those dark eyes bent on him now and then, the lure
of her whole figure, made a deeper impression than the remarks they
exchanged. Unconsciously he held himself straighter, walked with a more
elastic step.
In the train he put her through a sort of catechism as to what she did
with her days.
Made her dresses, shopped, visited a hospital, played her piano,
translated from the French.
She had regular work from a publisher, it seemed, which supplemented her
income a little. She seldom went out in the evening. "I've been living
alone so long, you see, that I don't mind it a bit. I believe I'm
naturally solitary."
"I don't believe that," said Jolyon. "Do you know many people?"
"Very few."
At Waterloo they took a hansom, and he drove with her to the door of her
mansions. Squeezing her hand at parting, he said:
"You know, you could always come to us at Robin Hill; you must let me
know everything that happens. Good-bye, Irene."