Jerome swung round. "Would those have been enough before—when you cared?" he demanded.
She stopped, almost touching him. "No, they wouldn't have been enough, then. I didn't know their value."
Her eyes were very gentle. Jerome turned away again and walked slowly over to the window. Jean stood where she was, waiting.
Could he take less? Could he? Know that there had been more, sense it in a thousand small, intimate ways that made his blood run hot at the thought. To feel it and never to share it. Or worse, to know it corpse-like, forever beyond his reach. That, or nothing of Jean at all.
He spoke without turning. "I don't know. Truly, I don't know. It doesn't seem as if I could. And yet—when I try to think of going on without you——"
He did not speak again or move, but stood with his shoulders hunched, his hands in his pockets. At last Jean went to him. At her touch on his arm, he looked up. His face was so white and fixed that Jean's hand dropped. It would have to be all or nothing to him.
"I—I hoped it would be enough."
"Why? You don't love me."
"I don't know why—only that I did hope."
Jerome's face quivered. "Why did you tell me, Jean, that you know what love is? If you hadn't—but now I will always know that you know. Why did I have to know?"