What of himself? How would he feel to find himself married to a girl who had violated the standards of Plymouth Rock, even though he had been the one to profit by that violation?... Even if none ever found it out but himself? He would know it.... It would constantly be recurring to him—or would it not? He did not know. The thing did not affect him now. It did not make Andree the less desirable and lovable and good. Perhaps that would persist—but his prejudices were deep-seated, had their roots in an older generation and were not lightly to be cast out....
But he loved her.... In spite of all that he saw and felt and feared, he knew that he loved her, and that to know she was removed forever from his life would be to lose a wonderful thing that he could not bear to lose.... The decision lay between love and expediency.... If only he could live in Paris and never return to America! How easy it would be then!
“Will you miss me?” he asked, clumsily.
She stirred in his arms and held her face up to his. “I shall be ver’ sad,” she said.
“Suppose—suppose something should happen to me and I could never come back?”
She held his hand very tightly. “I do not know,” she said. “I cannot to theenk of that.”
He must decide.... He must decide.... But he was afraid; he could not decide—not now, not yet.... There were hours ahead of them.
She asked nothing of him, made no demands, but waited, waited. He could feel her waiting, hoping for some word, some assurance that he was not going to desert her forever, that he would come back to her—and he could not give that assurance ... not yet.
“It might be six months; it might be a year before I could come back.”
She smiled. “I would be here,” she said.