She had
been on night duty at the hospital, and I had not seen her for
some days. The sight of her, bright-eyed and brave, fresh and
young, always filled me with happiness. I felt her presence like
wine and the sea wind and the sunshine. So greatly did her
vitality enrich me, that sometimes I called myself a horrid old
vampire.
As soon as she had greeted me, she said in her downright way:
"So Leonard Boyce has got his V.C."
"Yes," said I. "What do you think of it?"
A spot of colour rose to her cheek. "I'm very glad. It's no use,
Majy, pretending that I ignore his existence. I don't and I can't.
Because I loved and married someone else doesn't alter the fact
that I once cared for him, does it?"
"Many people," said I, judicially, "find out that they have been
mistaken as to the extent and nature of their own sentiments."
"I wasn't mistaken," she replied, sitting down on the piano stool,
her hands on the leathern seat, her neatly shod feet stretched out
in front of her, just as she had sat on her wedding eve talking
nonsense to Willie Connor. "I wasn't mistaken. I was never
addicted to silly school-girl fancies. I know my own mind. I cared
a lot for Leonard Boyce.
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