Even had I been willing to break my promise I could not have done so; for she would have me in every morning and every afternoon to look at me, and they told me that if I were not there to reassure her, it would undoubtedly cause a change for the worse. I stayed on and wrote to Mary Kirkwood—all the time with the fear that my letters were not reaching her, but also with the unshakable conviction that she was mine. You smile at this as proof of my colossal vanity. Well, your smile convicts you of never having loved. The essence of love is congeniality. Appetite is the essence of passion—which, therefore, has no sense of or especial desire for mutuality. Passion is as common as any other physical appetite. Love is as rare as are souls generous enough to experience or to inspire it. The essence of love is congeniality—and I knew there was a sympathy and understanding between me and Mary Kirkwood that made us lovers for all time.
There came a day—how it burned into my memory!—when Edna was well enough to talk with me. Several days before and I saw that it was not far away, and I awaited it with fierce impatience; she would tell me why she had sent for me and I should be free to go. It was one of those soft gray days of alternating rain and sun that are the specialty of the British climate. Edna, with flowers everywhere in her sitting room, was half reclining in an invalid chair, all manner of rich, delicate silk and lace assistants to comfort, luxury and beauty adorning her or forming background for her lovely face and head. I do not think there is a detail of the room or of her appearance that I could not reproduce, though at the time I was unaware of anything but her voice—her words.
I entered, seated myself in the broad low window opposite her. She looked at me a long time, a strange soft expression in her weary eyes—an expression that disquieted me. At last she said:
“It is so good to be getting well.”
“And you are getting well rapidly,” I said. “You have a wonderful constitution.”
“You are glad I am better, Godfrey?”
I laughed. “What a foolish question.”
“I didn’t know,” said she. “I feared— I have acted so badly toward you.”
“No indeed,” replied I. “Don’t worry about those things. I hope you feel as friendly toward me as I do toward you.”
“But you have always been good to me—even when I haven’t deserved it.”