The little man had told the truth to me, and Lola had told the truth to him.

The realisation of it paralysed me.

Why had I been such a fool as not to see it for myself?
Memories of a hundred indications came tumbling one after another into my head--the forgotten glove, the glances, the changes of mood, the tears when she learned of my illness, the mysterious words, the abrupt little "You ?" of yesterday.

The woman was in love, deeply in love, in love with all the fervour of her big nature.

And I had stood by and wondered what she meant by this and by that--things that would have been obvious to a coalheaver.