After my husband died--I am putting things crudely, you see--I had a
return of hope. It was because he loved me, I argued, that he had never
spoken; because he had always hoped some day to make me his wife; because
he wanted to spare me the "reproach." Rubbish! I knew well enough, in my
heart of hearts, that my one chance lay in the force of habit. He had
grown used to me; he was no longer young; he dreaded new people and new
ways; _il avait pris son pli_. Would it not be easier to marry me?

I don't believe he ever thought of it. He wrote me what people call "a
beautiful letter;" he was kind; considerate, decently commiserating; then,
after a few weeks, he slipped into his old way of coming in every
afternoon, and our interminable talks began again just where they had left
off. I heard later that people thought I had shown "such good taste" in
not marrying him.

So we jogged on for five years longer. Perhaps they were the best years,
for I had given up hoping. Then he died.

After his death--this is curious--there came to me a kind of mirage of
love. All the books and articles written about him, all the reviews of the
"Life," were full of discreet allusions to Silvia. I became again the Mrs.
Anerton of the glorious days. Sentimental girls and dear lads like you
turned pink when somebody whispered, "that was Silvia you were talking
to." Idiots begged for my autograph--publishers urged me to write my
reminiscences of him--critics consulted me about the reading of doubtful
lines. And I knew that, to all these people, I was the woman Vincent
Rendle had loved.

After a while that fire went out too and I was left alone with my past.
Alone--quite alone; for he had never really been with me. The intellectual