"In the old way. But don't say things." She sprang up. "Not tonight."
"When?" he asked sternly.
"I—don't know. Tonight I feel afraid. It's—too much. I shan't be able to keep it, Zebedee. It's too good. And we can't get this for nothing."
"I'm willing to pay for it. I want to pay for it, in the pain of parting from you now, in the work of all my days—" He stopped in his realization of how little he had to give. "I can't tell you," he added simply.
"Will it hurt you to leave me tonight?" she whispered.
"Yes."
She touched his sleeve. "I don't like you to be hurt, yet I like that. Will you come next Sunday?"
"Not if you're afraid. I can't come to see you if you won't let me say things."
"I'll try not to be afraid; only, only, say them very softly so that nothing else can hear."
He laughed and caught her hand and kissed it. "I shall do exactly what I like," he said; but as he strode away without another word he knew from something in the way she stood and looked at him, something of patience and resolve, that their future was not in his hands alone.