"It was simply what you and I went through with when we first met—and became engaged—and got married."
"Yes," said she. "Much the same. But—" Her eyes met his fully. "It wouldn't be honest if I didn't say too that I do not regret—about him. I suppose there's something wrong with me, but somehow I don't seem able to regret anything I do—even the things I'm ashamed of—like what I said this afternoon. It all seems part of experience. It seems necessary. That experience with him—it helped me toward learning to live."
She expected that he would be offended by her frankness. But he was not. "It helped you toward learning to live," he assented, like one stating an indisputable truth. "And it helped me. No, more than that. It taught me.... I wish the lesson could have been got in some—some other way. Perhaps you do, too." She nodded, gazing thoughtfully across the piano into the fire. "But," he went on, "fate doesn't let us choose our way—or, perhaps, there's no nice, refined way of getting one's full growth, any more than there is for a tree. It's simply got to stand outdoors in all weathers, and learn to survive and grow strong, no matter what comes."
"And the things that seem to hinder, often help most—and those that look like helps are enemies."
She saw his understanding, appreciative look, though her eyes were gazing past him; and she liked it. "We've both learned," said he. "And we've both been put in the way of learning more. Now why shouldn't you and I use our experience to the best advantage?"
"I intend to try," said she.
"Then it's simply a question of what is the best advantage. Isn't it for us both to stay on here?"
"I don't think so," was her slow reply. "Not for either of us."
"But you'll listen to my reasons? Really listen, I mean. You know, you caught my bad habit of not listening."
"Yes," she said with a forced, uneasy smile. "I'll listen."