James had passed through the fire, but he had passed also through the
river of years which washes out the fire; he had experienced the saddest
experience of all--forgetfulness of what it was like to be in love.
Forgotten! Forgotten so long, that he had forgotten even that he had
forgotten.
And now this rumour had come upon him, this rumour about his son's
wife; very vague, a shadow dodging among the palpable, straightforward
appearances of things, unreal, unintelligible as a ghost, but carrying
with it, like a ghost, inexplicable terror.
He tried to bring it home to his mind, but it was no more use than
trying to apply to himself one of those tragedies he read of daily in
his evening paper. He simply could not. There could be nothing in it.
It was all their nonsense. She didn't get on with Soames as well as she
might, but she was a good little thing--a good little thing!
Like the not inconsiderable majority of men, James relished a nice
little bit of scandal, and would say, in a matter-of-fact tone, licking
his lips, "Yes, yes--she and young Dyson; they tell me they're living at
Monte Carlo!"
But the significance of an affair of this sort--of its past, its
present, or its future--had never struck him.
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