"Well, let's hope that whatever ought not to be wasted, won't be," he said with forced lightness.
"You—will—be afraid," Katya whispered and leaned so close that involuntarily Roger stepped back. At his motion, she laughed in scorn.
"Yes, that is what you will do when you see it coming. You will step back. You will run away. You will be afraid of love."
"Oh, no, I won't. Why should I be afraid?" With an uncertain smile Roger tried to turn the tide creeping from the pit that Katya had opened.
"Because it hurts." Katya shuddered so violently that Roger saw the heavy muscles of her shoulders and neck quiver. "It hurts more than any pain in all the world. It burns out everything in the world, in you, but itself. It takes your brain and your body and makes white ashes of them. It takes you, the individual, and melts you into the world. It is the volcano through which the highest force of spirit finds expression. There are not many volcanoes in the world or the earth would melt in flames. There are not many who can love or the race too would melt away. Through all the ages a few mountains above the level, flat earth. A few who can love, only a few. That is love. Would you run away?"
In spite of her body trembling as with cold, little beads of moisture stood on Katya's face. It was too fierce, too elemental, too naked. Roger looked away. A choking noise from Katya drew his eyes again. She was gazing at him now with anguish and hatred in her eyes. Roger stepped back. The blood flamed into his brain, then rushed away, leaving him cold and sick at the stark nakedness of Katya's revelation.
"Don't," he whispered, "don't."
Slowly the spark in Katya's eyes faded. She gazed at him blankly with the dead eyes of a statue. Then, with a quick shudder she came back to life.
"Never mind," she said in her husky whisper. "It isn't your fault."
"I—I never—dreamed—it isn't possible—you can't——"