She began to walk again, I keeping pace with her. “It’s the only sensible thing to do,” said I. “It’s the only way out of this mess. And to-morrow we’ll sail away and not come back until—until we are good and ready.”
I waited a moment, then went on, and I had the feeling that I was saying what we were both thinking: “We’ve had the same experience—have been through the same bankruptcy. It has taught us, I think—I hope—I can’t be sure; human nature learns slowly and badly. But I see a good chance for us—not to be utterly and always blissfully happy, but to get far more out of life than either is getting—or could get alone.”
As we turned at the group of outbuildings she looked at me and I at her—a look straight into each other’s souls. And then and there was born that which alone can make a marriage successful or a life worth the living. What is the difference between friendship and love? I had thought—and said—that love was friendship in bloom. But as Mary and I looked at each other, I knew the full truth. Love is friendship set on fire. We did not speak. We glanced hastily away. At the front door she halted. In a quiet, awed voice she said:
“I’ll change from this riding suit.”
And what did I say, gentle reader, to commemorate our standing upon holy ground? I did no better than she. With eyes uncertain and voice untrustworthy and hoarse I said:
“And tell your maid to pack and go to town with the trunks—go to the landing at East Twenty-third Street. Can she be there by four or five this afternoon?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll see you at the bay—at the launch wharf—in half an hour? I’ve got to send off a telegram.”
“In half an hour,” said she, and with a grave smile and a wave of her crop she disappeared into the house.