“I wonder,” she said softly. “I wonder. You yourself,” she continued, “have always held that there is a certain vulgarity, a certain loss of fine feeling in the consummation of any attachment. The very barrier between us makes our intercourse seem sweeter and more desirable.”
“And yet,” he declared, leaning a little toward her, “there are times when nature will be heard—when one realizes the great call.”
“You are right,” she answered softly. “That is the terrible part of it all. You and I may never listen to it. We have to close our ears, to beat our hands and hide, when the time comes.”
“And is it worth while, I wonder?” he asked. “What do we gain——”
She held out her hand.
“Don’t, Henry,” she said—“don’t, especially now. Be thankful, rather, that there has been nothing in our great friendship which need keep you from your duty.”
“You mean that?” he asked hoarsely.
“You know that I mean it,” she answered. “You know that it must be.”
He rose to his feet and walked to the window. He remained there standing alone, for several minutes. When he came back, something had gone from his face. He moved heavily. He had the air of an older man.
“Pauline,” he said, “you send me away easily. Let me tell you one of the hard thoughts I have in my mind—one of the things that has tortured me. I have fancied—I may be wrong—but I have fancied that during the last few months you have been slipping away from me. I have felt it, somehow. There has been nothing tangible, and yet I have felt it. Answer me, honestly. Is this true? Is what I have told you, after all, something of a relief?”