And with the song came
pity that swamped disgust and disillusion. It seemed so sad to her that,
when hope dawned upon him, he should celebrate it by singing a piece of
sentimental, however haunting, doggerel. To go there and tell him that
she, too, was going to break promises, to change her mind--it was
impossible. It was like breaking promises to a little child. Came a
blinding flash of self-realization.
"Marcella Lashcairn," she said, standing under the white flare of the
electric light and facing herself squarely in the little mirror, which
showed her two scornful grey eyes, "You're a hypocrite! You think it's
very splendid and grand to save a big, grown-up man from getting drunk.
That's only because you're a girl and are flattered at his dependence on
you. If you saw any other girl acting as you do you'd say it was sheer
impudence! And you think it's very wonderful that anyone so clever as
Louis should notice you. You're flattered, you see--that's self-love,
not Louis-love! Oh very beautiful! And you're such an illogical sort of
idiot that you want to save him, and yet you want him so splendid and
shining that he doesn't need any saving. Oh go--get out--all of you!"
and she waved her hand to her dreams and sent the shining Lover riding
on on his quest without her. It was just as she used to talk to the
gulls and the winds on Ben Grief--when she was having things out with
herself before.
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