It was Jean who had said it, just as she had said: "Gramercy Park."
And now she said, just as quietly and simply: "I can't go on."
Cold damp broke out on Gregory's forehead.
She could not go on.
She wanted it to stop. She would fill her days without reference to him. He would fill his with no thought of her. He would make no more flying trips to New York. Never again. Not even once more, unless——
Gregory rose. If he did not get up now and move he would always sit there, staring at the three pages covered with the clear black writing, on the table beside him.
Jean with a child. A child of hers and of himself. She had weighed the price and was willing to pay. The fences that society had put up, Jean was willing to throw down. The conventions they had scorned in secret, Jean would scorn openly. Unconfused by all the little noises of the world, Jean heard the clearest call and answered.
"She doesn't realize what it would mean. She——"
The last sentence of the letter moved before him.
"I have thought it all out, dear, and I know. It's the one thing against everything else, the one thing that counts against all the things that don't."