“She would feel that it is interfering with your work. I feel it, too, and it may prevent a splendid book from being written. Am I tremendously selfish?”
He looked at her steadily, and her eyes met his without flinching. She stood, tall, slim, and straight, with a proud carriage to her head and a broad serenity of brow. Imagination was in her face, the beauty of whose contour filled him with a sort of comforting satisfaction. It was firm but gentle, courageous but sweet. Her eyes were a little wistful, and charged with changing lights and shadows that he found infinitely appealing. She awakened both heart and spirit, and he knew she could awaken his soul. What would it be like to be cared for by such a girl? He felt that already there existed between them something more than friendship.
“Will you forgive me for putting you through such an inquisition?” he asked.
“There is nothing to forgive, and everything to thank you for.”
“I think you are very brave.”
“Brave! It is you who are brave. We have no claim, no reason why you should be involved in all this.”
“And yet,” he said thoughtfully, “I was involved before we two ever met.” He made a sudden impulsive gesture, but it was his eyes that spoke next.
She smiled gravely, and at that smile he knew that another voice had reached him from the unknown. It carried no mysterious threat; it was unburdened with tragedy; it emanated neither from wood nor stone nor a jade devil. It was part of the rest, but all grace and purity and joy; a whisper of life, not death. What sped between them then he could never tell, but some echo of that whisper must have reached Jean, for her glance, strange and lingering and perhaps prophetic, met his own for a memorable instant while the color climbed delicately to her smooth cheeks.
“You see,” she said softly, “unless I can think of myself as having shaken all this off, and laid the ghost of uncertainty and, yes, fear, I can never have any real future.”
He pressed her slim fingers. “Don’t worry about the future,” he whispered.