"It's morning already," Helen said.
He looked eastward. "Hours of darkness yet."
"And you'll go down the road and back, before it's light. You needn't, George."
"I want to think of you," he answered simply, turning the letter in his hands.
She moved to the door and stood against it. "George—" she said. She had an impulse to tell him that his bargain was useless to him because she was a woman no longer. She had been changed from living flesh and blood to something more impalpable than air. She had promised to marry him, and she remained indifferent because, being no woman, she could not suffer a woman's pain; because, by her metamorphosis, there was no fear of that promise's fulfilment. It seemed only fair to tell him, but when he came to her, she shook her head.
"It was nothing," she murmured. Bulky of body, virile of sense, he was immature in mind, and she knew he would not understand.
"I must go now. Good-night."
"Don't go," he muttered.
She stood still, waiting for the words that laboured in him.
"I was mad," he said at last. "She makes me feel like that. You—you're different."