"No. I can't marry you."
He saw no ring on her hand. "Why?" he breathed. He was shocked into the use of his imagination. "Is it—it isn't Vincent?"
"Vincent?" She had to frown before she could remember him. "Oh no, no, no!"
"Why?" he asked again, and his voice seemed to hold back the word as it was uttered.
"I don't know. I'm very fond of you." She smiled with a touch of drollery. "I think I love you, as one loves some people, but not—one's lover. I thought I did, except when I heard voices."
He frowned, uncertain of her sanity. He shook his head.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Theresa. What have I done?"
"Nothing. But I've known secretly all the time—nearly all the time—that in saying I would marry you I fell below myself. Not"—she smiled again—"because I think you are unworthy, but just because you are not—the man for me. I made you into him for a little while, but truth is stronger than my will. It's possible that a very good man may do one more harm than a very bad one. But I'm not thinking of my safety. It's just my necessity, and I don't know what is going to follow. I can't explain. There are no words, for, you see, it's something that belongs to the wordless things. I ought to have found out before. I might have, if I had been quite honest."
The word had a memory for him. "Was this what you came to say last night?"
"No."