She considered a moment and then said
"No, I think not, though I am glad you ask me.
You see, one can't be jealous about things
in general; but about particular, definite,
personal things,"--here she had thrown her
hands up to his shoulders with a quick,
impulsive gesture--"oh, about those I should be
very jealous. I should torture myself--I couldn't
help it." After that it was easy to forget,
actually to forget. He wondered to-night,
as he poured his wine, how many times he had
thought of Hilda in the last ten years.
He had been in London more or less,
but he had never happened to hear of her.
"All the same," he lifted his glass, "here's to you,
little Hilda. You've made things come your way,
and I never thought you'd do it.
"Of course," he reflected, "she always had
that combination of something homely and
sensible, and something utterly wild and daft.
But I never thought she'd do anything.
She hadn't much ambition then, and she was
too fond of trifles. She must care about the
theatre a great deal more than she used to.
Perhaps she has me to thank for something,
after all. Sometimes a little jolt like that
does one good. She was a daft, generous
little thing. I'm glad she's held her own since.
After all, we were awfully young. It was youth
and poverty and proximity, and everything
was young and kindly. I shouldn't wonder
if she could laugh about it with me now.
I shouldn't wonder-- But they've probably
spoiled her, so that she'd be tiresome if
one met her again.
Pages:
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35