RODERICK HUDSON
irony, but irresponsible, void of positive compunction, it jarred at moments almost like an insult. Rowland answered nothing. "And all this time," Roderick continued, "you 've been in love? Tell me then, please—if you don't mind—with whom."
Rowland felt the temptation to give him a palpable pang. "With whom but with the nearest—?"
"The nearest?" Roderick maintained his cold, large stare, which seemed so to neglect and overshoot the near. But then he brought it down. "You mean with poor Mary?"
"I mean with Miss Garland."
At the tone, suddenly, he coloured; something had touched him somewhere. He gave, however, at first, under control, the least possible sign. "How extraordinary! But I see. Heaven forgive us!"
Rowland took notice of the "us," while his companion, for further comment, simply fell back on the turf and lay for some time staring at the sky. At last he sprang to his feet, and Rowland rose also, conscious for the first time, with any sharpness, in all their intercourse, of having made an impression on him. He had driven in, as it were, a nail, and found in the tap of his hammer, for once in a way, a sensation.
"For how long has this been?" the young man went on.
"Since I first knew her."
"Two years! And you 've never told her?"
"Never."
"You 've told no one?"
"You 're the first person."
"Why then have you been silent?"
510
