"
"Ah!" she broke in, triumphantly, "out of your own lips:--
isn't it my duty to do what seems to me right?"
He considered a minute. "Well, yes; I suppose the most valuable
example any one can set is to do what he or she believes
to be right. It may be wrong, but that is not the point.
We must do what we conceive to be our duty. Only, we've got
to be sure, Tay, in deciding upon duty, in deciding what is right,--
we've got to be sure that self-interest is eliminated.
I don't believe anybody can decide absolutely on what is right
without eliminating self."
She frowned at this impatiently; its perfect fairness meant
nothing to her.
"You promised to be my wife," he went on with a curious sternness; "it is
obviously 'right,' and so it is your first duty to keep your promise--
at least, so long as my conduct does not absolve you from it."
Then he added, hastily, with careful justice: "Of course, I'm not talking
about promises to love; they are nonsense. Nobody can promise to love.
Promises to do our duty are all that count."
That was the only reproach he made--if it was a reproach--
for his betrayed love. It was just as well. Discussion on this
subject between husbands and wives is always futile. Nothing was
ever accomplished by it; and yet, in spite of the verdict of time
and experience that nothing is gained, over and over the jealous man,
and still more frequently the jealous woman, protests against a lost love
with a bitterness that kills pity and turns remorse into antagonism.
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