"Not so much? Not in the same way?" A touch of urgency had come into her tone.
"Should you expect that? And I'm sure you wouldn't wish it."
"Some people go on caring always—whatever happens."
He leant forward towards her and spoke in a low serious voice.
"I shall never be able to think of my life without thinking of you," he told her. After a pause he added, "That's the truth of it, but I don't know exactly how much it comes to. A good deal, I expect; more than generally happens in such cases."
"You'll marry somebody!" The prospect did not seem to please her.
"Very likely," he answered. "What difference does that make? Whatever happens, you're there. You put yourself there, and you can't take yourself away again."
"I don't want to," said Ora, with all her old sincerity in the avowal of her feelings.
"Of course you don't," he said, with a faint smile. She had spoken seriously, almost pathetically, as though she were asking to be allowed to stay with him in some such way as he had hinted at; for the first time he recognised the look of appeal once so familiar. It brought to him mingled pain and pleasure; it roused a tenderness which made him anxious above all to say nothing that would hurt her, and to leave her happy and content with herself when they parted; this also was quite in the old fashion.
"Why, you'll stand for the best time and the best thing in my life," he said. "You'll be my holiday, Ora. But we can't have holidays all the time."