She did not even flush at the words, sprung from a great sincerity.
"Shall I ask you? Shall I ask you to let me take your name and live with you, and be true to you?"
They looked at each other in the terrible recognition that brings souls almost too close.
"You are a great woman, my dear," said Osmond. He rose and stood before her. "Look at me. I hate my body. Could you love it?"
"I do love it," said the woman. "And I love your soul. And I am ashamed to think we can know the things we have known and then think of the bodies we live in. Grannie believes in immortal life. I believe in it too, since I have known you."
"There are a good many hours, my dear, when we forget immortal life. The world goes hard with us. In those times, shall you look at me and hate me?"
She was smiling at him through tears.
"I shall look at you and love you, stupid!" she said. "Oh, how little men know!"
"And then," he was continuing, in his bitter honesty, "I am a laboring man. I told Peter you were a terrible Parisian."
She shook her head.