She found her voice, and asked him how he had been able to leave London. He answered that he had managed—he’d arranged it; and she saw he hardly heard what she was saying.
“I had to see you,” he went on, and moved nearer, sitting down at her side.
“Yes; we must think of Owen——”
“Oh, Owen—!”
Her mind had flown back to Sophy Viner’s plea that she should let Darrow return to Givre in order that Owen might be persuaded of the folly of his suspicions. The suggestion was absurd, of course. She could not ask Darrow to lend himself to such a fraud, even had she had the inhuman courage to play her part in it. She was suddenly overwhelmed by the futility of every attempt to reconstruct her ruined world. No, it was useless; and since it was useless, every moment with Darrow was pure pain...
“I’ve come to talk of myself, not of Owen,” she heard him saying. “When you sent me away the other day I understood that it couldn’t be otherwise—then. But it’s not possible that you and I should part like that. If I’m to lose you, it must be for a better reason.”
“A better reason?”
“Yes: a deeper one. One that means a fundamental disaccord between us. This one doesn’t—in spite of everything it doesn’t. That’s what I want you to see, and have the courage to acknowledge.”
“If I saw it I should have the courage!”
“Yes: courage was the wrong word. You have that. That’s why I’m here.”