"Insignificant!" he repeated, with something like a groan. "How little you know of yourself to think that! But tell me, is your mind unalterably made up to this step?—could nothing induce you to change it?"
Her eyes met his, steady and calm as stars. "Nothing," she answered, firmly but gently. "When God says, 'Come,' one must arise and go. There is no alternative. As a preparation, He fills one with such a distaste for the world, such a sense of the brevity and unsatisfactoriness of all earthly things, that they no longer have any power to attract."
"Not even human love?" he asked, almost in a whisper.
She shook her head. "Not when weighed against divine love," she answered.
In that answer everything was said, and a silence fell, in which Claire seemed to hear the beating of her heart. Would he be satisfied with this and go away without forcing her to be more explicit, or would he persist in laying on her one of the most painful necessities which can be laid upon a woman? As she waited with anxiety for the solution of this question, Earle was having something of a struggle with himself. The impulse was strong with him to declare unreservedly what he felt and what he had ventured to hope; but an instinct told him not only that it would be useless, but that he would inflict needless pain upon Claire, and mar their friendship by a memory of words that could serve no possible purpose. He knew that she understood him; he recognized the motive which had made her speak to him of a purpose that he felt sure had been spoken of to no other among her associates and friends; and he was strong enough to say to himself that he would keep silence—that she should know no more than she had already guessed of the pain which it cost him to hear her resolution.
When he presently looked at her, it was with a face pale with feeling, but calm with the power of self-control. "Such a choice," he said, "it is not for me or for any other man to combat. I only venture to beg you not to act hastily. It would be terrible to take such a step and regret it."
Claire smiled almost as a cloistered nun might smile at such words. "Do you think that one ever takes such a step hastily? No: there is a long probation before me; and if I have spoken to you somewhat prematurely, it was only because I thought I should like you to know—"
"I understand," he said, as she hesitated. "It is well that I should know. Do not think that I am so dull as to mistake you in the least. I am honored by your confidence, and I shall remember it and you as long as I live. Now"—he rose—"I must bid you good-bye. I think of leaving Rome for a time. I have a friend in Naples who is urging me to join him in a journey to the East. Can I do anything for you in the Holy Land?"
"You can pray for me," said Claire; "and believe that wherever I may be I shall always pray for you."
"What better covenant could be made?" he asked, with a faint smile. And then, in order to preserve his composure, he took her hand, kissed it, and went hastily away.