"But I love her, too, Martin," he cried. "I long for her."
Out of the mist came the unseen voice:
"You long for what she looks like," it said. "You hate what she is."
"That may be. But the whole thing makes me utterly miserable."
Table and figure, the white paper and the tray with syphon and whisky became suddenly visible.
"You must learn not to be miserable," said that compassionate mouth. "Be very patient, Archie. You think you are stumbling through absolute darkness, but in reality, you are flooded with light. I can't see the darkness which you feel is so impenetrable: I only see you walking towards the ineffable radiance, always moving towards it. Occupy yourself, and try to grow indifferent to that part of Helena which you hate. Cling to love always. Just cling to love. Never hate; some time you may get to love what you hated."
The voice sank lower.
"The power is failing," it said. "I am losing touch with you."
"Oh, don't go," said Archie. "Martin, stop with me. Talk to me. I want to say so much to you."
He reached out his hand, and for a moment, out of the sunlit mists that had gathered again he felt, perfectly clearly, the touch of fingers that pressed his. But they died away into nothing as he clasped them, and the voice faded to the faintest whisper.