Then weirdly, unaccountably, across the even rhapsody of her meditation came a voice from the chapels of memory; a voice full, perfectly poised, with each word as flawless as if it had been engraved on a cameo.
“Love comes down to a hearth-fire, after marriage; and we who sing are not content with hearth-fires. Remember that always, little one; we who sing are not content with hearth-fires.”
Only that second of recollection before Jim’s eyes met hers, and Joy chose her fate. She urged her eyes away from him, with a sick little shiver; and keeping them fixed on some distant point, she said in a voice so slight it almost slipped away before it struck the hearing: “Jim—please—don’t!”
“I—won’t,” he said, in a voice that did not alter. “I—I knew it was—hopeless, Joy, before I spoke; and I shall not bother you about it again; but I wanted you to know, while I was able to see you—you have not let me see you for so long.”
“Jim—I’m so sorry——” she cried, against the destruction that was descending upon her soul so lately filled with peace.
“Sorry! Sorry is—an awful little word. I didn’t want to make you—sorry. I just wanted you to know—I would have been a conceited ass indeed if I had thought you could—care for me.”
“It’s not that.”
The words were clipped out in an even, glassy tone, as hard as a window-pane and as easy to break or see through. But the shutters were down behind, for the one who most wanted to see. . . .
Jim did not bring the subject up again until they were at the door of the apartment.
“Please don’t let anything I’ve said worry you, Joy. And—we still are friends—aren’t we?”