Even after . . .
Yes. She put her hand on his wrist. I don't want you to go back to her, Harold, that is I want you to do what you really feel like doing, but it is the truth. She loves you. Of that I am certain.
Campaspe sipped her tea and nibbled a slender sandwich. Harold looked at her intently, searching her eyes.
Campaspe. . . . I don't believe I've ever loved . . . Alice. It was the first time that he had spoken the name and the effort was apparent. I've been a fool. Sometimes, up in Provincetown, sitting on the beach, I have wondered if it didn't all come about—the marriage, I mean—because she was your sister.
But, Harold, you met her first.
It's very difficult to explain. I don't believe I can explain. What I want you to try to understand is that when I married Alice I had some kind of subconscious feeling that I was marrying you.
Harold, you delightful boy! Her expression was quizzical.
I don't know myself! I don't know myself! he moaned. That's the whole trouble.
You're young, boy.
So is Bunny. So is Paul. So is Ronald. So is—he hesitated again—Zimbule, but they do.
She remained silent.
Will I ever learn to understand myself?
I think so.
