"It would not be honest, Yetta, to accept your love, unless I made quite sure that you know me, know what you are doing, the choice you are making—stripped of romance, in its cold nakedness. It isn't a choice, Yetta, between me and Isadore. It's deeper than that, deeper than individuals. I must see that you make your choice with clear eyes. If you want romance—the grand passion—well—I haven't that to offer you. I—"
His voice trailed off into silence. Perhaps he was a fool. But for the first time in his life he was giving up something he wanted, something he could have for the asking. For the first time in his life he had utterly cleansed himself of selfishness. It was a momentous triumph over his nature, but it was only momentary. His desire for the girl at his feet came over him with a rush. She was resting her head against the ledge of the window-seat and—her clenched fist pressed against her lips—was staring at the black shadows under the table.
Perhaps a scrupulous definition forbade the use of the word "love" to describe his emotion, but it was none the less strong. The last twenty-four hours had been wondrously sweet to him. There was a grace to her clean, fresh youth, a charm to her caresses, her restrained but unhid passion, the timidities and spontaneous abandon of her maidenhood, which had enchanted all the roots of his being. And besides and above all this—though life holds little better than such emotions—was the hope that with her he might get into the swing of activity, the ascending curve of work and purpose.
"I'm through pleading for you, Yetta. Let me plead a little for myself. What is it that makes me talk to you like this? It's not romance. Perhaps it isn't what you would call love. But I would call it that. It's a very desperate desire to forget all about myself and—as Isadore said—'be good to you.' Get up, darling, and sit here beside me. Let us talk over again all our plans of work. After all, work is more important than romance."
She got up rather unsteadily, but she did not sit down beside him.
"I think love is necessary," she said.
"Don't let's wreck things over a word, Yetta. 'Love' means so many things. Tell me what it is I feel for you. What is it that makes me thrill so to your kisses? What is it that makes me want you, Yetta, for all time and always? What is it makes me know I can win to usefulness, if you will help me? What is it that makes me risk losing what I want most in the world, for fear I may not be true and just to you? I don't care what name you give it. But isn't it enough? Let's try to think of realities, not words."
"No. It's not the word I care about," she said. "But the reality is necessary. I love you, Walter, and I'm not afraid of the word. You know what it means to me—all that it ever meant to any woman—and more. It means thinking only and above everything else of the other—and more than that. It means giving one's self without any 'if's'—and more than that too. I can't tell you what love is—just because the reality is so much bigger than any words. But of one thing I am sure. There can't be any regrets in love. Are you sorry it isn't Mabel who loves you? I don't care about the past any more. I did for a minute this afternoon—because it surprised me. But I love you too much to care about the past. But, oh! the future, Walter? We daren't cheapen that! That's all there is left to us. And our life together—our future—couldn't be fine if you had regrets. If ever you had to hide things from me and had wishes I couldn't share. If you wished sometimes I was some one else. It's very simple, Walter. It's this way. If Mabel should come into this room and stand here beside me and say, 'I love you,' as I say it—which of us would you choose?"
"She'll never come into the room, Yetta."