"Besides," he continued, throwing his arm along the back of the bench, and turning toward her so that his face was like a dusky bas-relief with a silver rim—"besides, there's something I've been wanting to tell you."
The sound of the river seemed to cease altogether: the whole world became silent.
Margaret had trusted her inspiration farther than it appeared likely to carry her. Again she could think of nothing happier than to repeat, on the same witless note of interrogation: "To tell me?"
"You only."
The constraint, the difficulty, seemed to be on his side now: she divined it by the renewed shifting of his attitude—he was capable, usually, of such fine intervals of immobility—and by a confusion in his utterance that set her own voice throbbing in her throat.
"You've been so perfect to me," he began again. "It's not my fault if you've made me feel that you would understand everything—make allowances for everything—see just how a man may have held out, and fought against a thing—as long as he had the strength.... This may be my only chance; and I can't go away without telling you."
He had turned from her now, and was staring at the river, so that his profile was projected against the moonlight in all its beautiful young dejection.
There was a slight pause, as though he waited for her to speak; then she leaned forward and laid her hand on his.
"If I have really been—if I have done for you even the least part of what you say ... what you imagine ... will you do for me, now, just one thing in return?"
He sat motionless, as if fearing to frighten away the shy touch on his hand, and she left it there, conscious of her gesture only as part of the high ritual of their farewell.