"No," she said quickly. "I shan't ever write again; that's done with; we'll just talk the stories over when we're out upon our dear old rambles, and then, you see, you'll get the woman's view as well. And possibly I may get plots sometimes, although I couldn't write them."
"Then we'll sign Helena and Hubert Brett," he said in swift penitence, forcing himself to nobility. "That really does sound excellent!"
"No," she replied slowly, "you must always sign. You see your name is known. Helena Brett has never written anything, and Zoë Baskerville is dead—thank goodness!" She forced herself to smile. She must remain the amateur! That touch of pity, she knew, must be there if things were ever to be right again....
Perhaps he guessed a little, for suddenly he clasped her in his arms again. "My God, Helena," he cried passionately, "how insignificant and mean you make me feel! You women can forgive, and we're so obstinate. You've spared me such a lot, I know. If you had told me all I know you could, I never should have cared for you again! It's pretty damnable, that, isn't it? But swine like me go on repenting and repenting, and then we're twice as bad again. We're cursed, I think; we——"
She put her hand over his mouth. "It's over now," she said: "time up," and laughed, herself again.
He looked at her as at some miracle beyond his understanding. "And you won't ever long to—well, to be Zoë again?"
She looked him full in the face, and her eyes smiled happiness. "No," she said, "I've found myself out as well. I'm nothing but a woman after all!"
"The dearest woman in the whole world," he replied and kissed her.
Ruth knocked at the door.
THE END