Nan refused to blame Maryon simply because he had not married her then and there.
But she could not forgive him for deliberately seeking her out and laying on her that strange fascination of his when, in his own heart, he must have known that he would always ultimately place his art before love.
And that he should marry Lady Beverley, a thoroughly commonplace woman hung round with the money her late husband had bequeathed her, Maryon's very antithesis in all that pertained to the beautiful--this sickened her.

It seemed to her as though he were yielding his birthright in exchange for a mess of pottage.
Where was his self-respect that he could do this thing?
The high courage of the artist to conquer single-handed?
Not only had he trampled on the love which he professed to have borne her--and which, in her innermost heart, she knew he _had_ borne her--but he was trampling on everything else in life that mattered.

She felt that his projected marriage with Lady Beverley was like the sale of a soul.
When lunch was over, the whole party adjourned to the terrace for coffee, and as soon as she decently could after the performance of this sacred rite, Nan escaped into the rose-garden by herself, there to wrestle with the thoughts to which Ralph's carelessly uttered news had given rise.
They were rather bitter thoughts.

She was aware of an odd sense of loss, for whatever may have come between them, no woman ever quite believes that the man who has once loved her will eventually marry some other woman.

Whether it happens early or late, it is always somewhat of a shock.