Her eyes abruptly became serious. "That's what I've come home to find out," said she. Hesitatingly, "That's why I've come here to-day."
He became curiously quiet—stared at the writing before him on the table. After a while he said:
"Jane, I was entirely too glad to see you to-day. I had——"
"Don't say that," she pleaded. "Victor, it isn't a weakness——"
His hand resting upon the table clenched into a fist and his brows drew down. "There can be no question but that it is a weakness and a folly," he pushed on. "I will not spoil your life and mine. You are not for me, and I am not for you. The reason we hang on to this is because each of us has a streak of tenacity. We don't want each other, but we are so made that we can't let go of an idea once it has gotten into our heads."
"There is another reason," she said gently. "We are, both of us, alone—and lonesome, Victor."
"But I'm not alone. I'm not lonesome——" And there he abruptly halted, to gaze at her with the expression of awakening and astonishment. "I believe I'm wrong. I believe you're right," he exclaimed. "I had never thought of that before."
"You've been imagining your work, your cause was enough," she went on in a quiet rational way that was a revelation—and a self-revelation—of the real Jane Hastings. "But it isn't. There's a whole other side of your nature—the—the—the private side—that's the expression—the private side. And you've been denying to it its rights."
He reflected, nodded slowly. "I believe that's the truth," he said. "It explains a curious feeling I've had—a sort of shriveling sensation." He gazed thoughtfully at her, his face gradually relaxing into a merry smile.
"What is it?" asked she, smiling in turn.