"Fire! That was what drew me to you in the beginning. . “Love should be enough, John, but it never is. A film of dust lay upon it; the ink marks were ancient. I almost wish we hadn't come. Lady Palsworthy was the widow of a knight who had won his spurs in the wholesale coal trade, she was of good seventeenth-century attorney blood, a county family, and distantly related to Aunt Mollie’s deceased curate. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. And yet, often when alone, he wondered: had McClintock been wrong, or had she ceased to care in that way? The possibility that she no longer cared should have filled him with unalloyed happiness, whereas it depressed him, cut the natural vanity of youth into shreds and tatters. Only the major won’t have it, and we’ve to bide by what the major says.
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