"Oh, Lord, Edith, don't ask me. How do I know? I should have to tell her—the truth."
"And what would happen then?—to her I mean."
"I've no idea. She'd bear up against it. She's that sort of person. But then, inwardly, she'd very likely break her heart."
"Oh, Chip, is it worth while? Think!"
"I am thinking."
"Is it the spirit? That's the thing to find out."
He shook his head sadly. "I don't know how to tell."
"But suppose I do? Would you trust to me? Would you believe that the thing I felt to be right for me was the right thing for us both?"
"I think I should."
"Well, then, listen. It's this way. You know, Chip, I love you." She had his hand now in both of hers, twisting her fingers nervously in and out between his. "I don't have to tell you, do I? I love you. Oh, how I love you! It's as if the very heart had gone out of my body into yours. And yet, Chip—oh, don't be angry—it seems to me that if I left him now and went back to you I should become something vile. It isn't because he's so noble and good. No, it isn't that. And it isn't just the idea of passing from one man to another and back again. We have turned marriage into opera bouffe, we Americans, and we might as well take it as we've made it. It isn't that at all. It's—it's exactly what you said just now: it's like a man swimming away from a sinking ship, and leaving his wife and children to drown, because he can't rescue them. Better a thousand times to go down with them, isn't it? You may call it waste of human material, if you like, and yet—well, you know what I mean. I should be leaving him to drown and you'd be leaving her to drown; and, even though we can't give them happiness by standing by, yet it's some satisfaction just to stand by. Isn't that it? Isn't that the spirit?"