“I had the oddest sense that this thing wasn’t final, that something would occur to end it. I didn’t expect to finish it myself, but I expected that something would. The feeling made me terribly restless; and it often made me cold and wayward with Waldo: then I had to be very affectionate to make him happy again. I liked making him happy, and I could do it. But I always seemed to be playing a part. I suppose I loved Arsenio. Love Arsenio after what had happened! That seemed monstrous. I wouldn’t open my eyes to it. I wouldn’t have gone to him if I could. And yet I couldn’t go happily to Waldo. I felt I was Arsenio’s—I wouldn’t own it, but I couldn’t help it. Julius, I believe that I’m a very primitive woman.” “You’ve been sounding rather complicated up to now; I don’t mean—well, unnatural.” “You’ve had love affairs, of course. I know you’ve had one big one. I even know her name; Aunt Bertha told me.” “She shouldn’t have done that.” “I was one of the family then, you see. She is—dead?” “Yes, some few years ago—two years before we met at Cragsfoot.” “That’s how you come not to have married?” “I don’t know; many men don’t marry. Well—probably. But it’s your story we’re after, not mine.” “Yes, but your having had an affair like that may help you—may help me to make you understand. What is it that sometimes seems to tie two people together in spite of themselves? Arsenio’s coming back to me was just chance—chance on chance. He was in this very place where we are now; in very low water, living in the little house I’m living in now, and employed as clerk to a wine merchant. He had given up all thoughts of me, of coming back to England. He couldn’t do it; he hadn’t the money. The English papers hardly ever came his way. One day a man came in, for a bottle of whisky—an Englishman; he had a copy of the _Times_ with him, and tore off a sheet of it to wrap the bottle in, and threw the rest on the floor. When he was gone, Arsenio picked it up and read it. And he saw the announcement of the date of my wedding—July the twenty-first.” “He told me, that day in London, that he had already decided to come to England when he saw that.” “He couldn’t tell you all the truth that day. This is what happened. Seeing that notice, a queer fancy took him; he would see whether that number—my number he called it—would bring him luck. He scraped together some money, went over to Monte Carlo, and won, won, won! His luck went to his head; everything seemed possible. He came straight to England—to see if the luck held, he said. You can guess the rest.” “Pretty well. You must have had a time of it, though!”