“Then tell me, what is he?”
“She smiled faintly; again the elusive tenderness lingered about her lips, the wistful droop at the corners.
“That I may not tell you, Harry. You couldn't understand. If only I could.”
Certainly I couldn't understand her evasion. I studied and watched her—her wondrous hair, the perfection of her throat, the curve of her bosom.
“Then he is supernatural.”
“No, not that, Harry. That would explain everything. One cannot go above Nature. He is living just as you are.”
I studied a moment.
“Are you a woman?” I asked suddenly.
Perhaps I should not have asked it; she was so sad and beautiful, somehow I could not doubt her sincerity. There was a burden at the back of her sadness, some great yearning unsatisfied, unattainable. She dropped her head. The hand upon my arm quivered and clutched spasmodically; I caught the least sound of a sob. When I looked up her eyes were wet and sparkling.
“Oh,” she said. “Harry, why do you ask it? A woman! Harry, a woman! To live and love and to be loved. What must it be? There is so much of life that is sweet and pure. I love it—I love it! I can have everything but the most exalted thing of all. I can live, see, enjoy, think, but I cannot have love. You knew it from the first. How did you know it? You said—Ah, it is true! I am out of the moonbeams.” She controlled herself suddenly. “Excuse me,” she said simply. “But you can never understand. May I have the ring?”