"DOES it matter so very much?" Maurice asked at length, a thrill of intense feeling in his voice.
"I'm afraid it does." Her eyes were full.
"It was wrong of me not to tell you sooner. You forgive?"
"Oh, it isn't—forgiveness," she said, with difficulty. "It means so many things."
"Tell me—what things."
She shook her head.
"I can't. How can I?"
"No need," he said.
Then he explained how fully he knew; how deeply he felt his own position; how in college days he had suffered—always in silence—from the impossibility of asking his college chums to his home, as other men did. How he had fought the battle out, had accepted those conditions of life which were his, had determined to make his own standing, had found friends, had hoped that the worst was over. And then—how he had seen her, and had discovered, with a new and terrible poignancy, what his position indeed meant.
Not at the beginning; not when they first met; but day by day as they grew more intimate. Then the old battle had to be fought over again; only far worse, far harder, than ever before. Even when he had seemed to be at his best and gayest, he never could forget, and the strife had gone on. For all through he had known that, sooner or later, he must tell her everything; and time after time he had striven to bring out the words, which he feared would dash his hopes to the ground.