“And–and you have little hope?”
“Almost no hope.”
Absorbed though I was in my own selfish feeling, I could not but notice the disappointment of her tone. We were at the church door now. She held out her hand. To see her pass thus out of my sight, to know that my own obstinacy was raising this barrier between us, that I had wounded her–I could not let her go like that, even for a few hours.
“Jacqueline,” I said firmly, “I wish to tell you about this search. I know a half street, half campo near here, delightfully shaded with mulberry trees. There are benches, and one may sit there and talk quietly. Will you go with me? I will not keep you long.”
“Well, Dick, what is it?” she asked when she was seated.
Her hands were clasped loosely in her lap. Her gaze passed me by, and dwelt on the cage of a thrush hanging on a nail in a doorway. The feathered prisoner was singing in ecstasy.
“This mad quest that you have sent me on,” I broke out impetuously, “I want you to release me from it.”
She was silent a moment, then drew herself up with a certain hauteur.
“I release you from it, of course, since you wish it,” she answered with dignity.
“No, no, Jacqueline. Not in that way. Do not misunderstand me. I call it a mad quest not because it seems a hopeless one. It is mad, because it is useless. The most rigid sense of honor could not hold you to your lightly spoken word. You love the duke, or you do not. You love me, or you do not. Surely you do not pit us against each other. This is not a test of love. And so, I say, this quest is mad. It is leading me surely away from you. I am beginning to care for it for its own sake. I want you to release me from it.”