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“Oh, no, I couldn’t marry you,” she said, almost frightened; “I don’t love you that way at all. I never did. And you don’t love me. I didn’t mean to tell you now, but next month I’m going to marry another man. We’re not even a
“Who is he?” I demanded.
“A man from Sava
“Are you in love with him?”
“Of course I am.” We both smiled. “Of course I am! What are you trying to make me say?”
There were no doubts, as there had been with other men. She couldn’t afford to let herself have doubts. I knew this because she had long ago stopped making any pretensions with me. This very naturalness, I realized, was because she didn’t consider me as an admirer. She couldn’t believe that anyone not taken in to the point of uncritical worship could really love her. That was what she called being “sincere”; she felt most security with men like Canby and Earl Schoen, who were incapable of passing judgments on the ostensibly aristocratic heart.[45]
“All right,” I said, as if she had asked my permission to marry. “Now, would you do something for me?”
“Anything.”
“Ride out to camp.”
“But there’s nothing left there, honey.”
“I don’t care.”
We walked downtown. The taxi driver in front of the hotel repeated her objection: “Nothing there now, cap.”
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45
incapable of passing judgments on the ostensibly aristocratic heart – неспособные вынести приговор её мнимо аристократическому сердцу