Of course
Ashburnham could not leave her alone. I do not believe that he
could. Why, even I, at this distance of time am aware that I am a
little in love with her memory. I can't help smiling when I think
suddenly of her--as you might at the thought of something wrapped
carefully away in lavender, in some drawer, in some old house that
you have long left. She was so--so submissive. Why, even to me
she had the air of being submissive--to me that not the youngest
child will ever pay heed to. Yes, this is the saddest story . . .
No, I cannot help wishing that Florence had left her alone--with
her playing with adultery. I suppose it was; though she was such a
child that one has the impression that she would hardly have
known how to spell such a word. No, it was just
submissiveness--to the importunities, to the tempestuous forces
that pushed that miserable fellow on to ruin. And I do not suppose
that Florence really made much difference. If it had not been for
her that Ashburnham left his allegiance for Mrs Maidan, then it
would have been some other woman. But still, I do not know.
Perhaps the poor young thing would have died--she was bound to
die, anyhow, quite soon--but she would have died without having
to soak her noonday pillow with tears whilst Florence, below the
window, talked to Captain Ashburnham about the Constitution of
the United States.
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