“Poor you!” said Ann Veronica.

“My wife refused absolutely to have anything more to do with me.  She could hardly speak to me; she insisted relentlessly upon a separation.  She had money of her own—­much more than I have—­and there was no need to squabble about that.  She has given herself up to social work.”

“Well—­”

“That’s all.  Practically all.  And yet—­Wait a little, you’d better have every bit of it.  One doesn’t go about with these passions allayed simply because they have made wreckage and a scandal.  There one is!  The same stuff still!  One has a craving in one’s blood, a craving roused, cut off from its redeeming and guiding emotional side.  A man has more freedom to do evil than a woman.  Irregularly, in a quite inglorious and unromantic way, you know, I am a vicious man.  That’s—­that’s my private life.  Until the last few months.  It isn’t what I have been but what I am.  I haven’t taken much account of it until now.  My honor has been in my scientific work and public discussion and the things I write.  Lots of us are like that.  But, you see, I’m smirched.  For the sort of love-making you think about.  I’ve muddled all this business.  I’ve had my time and lost my chances.  I’m damaged goods.  And you’re as clean as fire.  You come with those clear eyes of yours, as valiant as an angel....”

He stopped abruptly.

“Well?” she said.

“That’s all.”

“It’s so strange to think of you—­troubled by such things.  I didn’t think—­I don’t know what I thought.  Suddenly all this makes you human.  Makes you real.”

“But don’t you see how I must stand to you?  Don’t you see how it bars us from being lovers—­You can’t—­at first.  You must think it over.  It’s all outside the world of your experience.”

“I don’t think it makes a rap of difference, except for one thing.  I love you more.  I’ve wanted you—­always.  I didn’t dream, not even in my wildest dreaming, that—­you might have any need of me.”

He made a little noise in his throat as if something had cried out within him, and for a time they were both too full for speech.

They were going up the slope into Waterloo Station.

“You go home and think of all this,” he said, “and talk about it to-morrow.  Don’t, don’t say anything now, not anything.  As for loving you, I do.  I do—­with all my heart.  It’s no good hiding it any more.  I could never have talked to you like this, forgetting everything that parts us, forgetting even your age, if I did not love you utterly.  If I were a clean, free man—­We’ll have to talk of all these things.  Thank goodness there’s plenty of opportunity!  And we two can talk.  Anyhow, now you’ve begun it, there’s nothing to keep us in all this from being the best friends in the world.  And talking of every conceivable thing.  Is there?”

“Nothing,” said Ann Veronica, with a radiant face.

“Before this there was a sort of restraint—­a make-believe.  It’s gone.”