A wretched revolt seized me as I gazed at the substantial comfort of those normal, happy homes.
“Why did you tell me! What good can that do? At least we were make-believe friends before. Suppose I were to tell you that I care, then what.”
“I do not ask you to tell me,” Von Gerhard replied, quietly.
“You need not. You know. You knew long, long ago. You know I love the big quietness of you, and your sureness, and the German way you have of twisting your sentences about, and the steady grip of your great firm hands, and the rareness of your laugh, and the simplicity of you. Why I love the very cleanliness of your ruddy skin, and the way your hair grows away from your forehead, and your walk, and your voice and—Oh, what is the use of it all?”
“Just this, Dawn. The light of day sweetens all things. We have dragged this thing out into the sunlight, where, if it grows, it will grow sanely and healthily. It was but an ugly, distorted, unsightly thing, sending out pale unhealthy shoots in the dark, unwholesome cellars of our inner consciences. Norah’s knowing was the cleanest, sweetest thing about it.”
“How wonderfully you understand her, and how right you are! Her knowing seems to make it as it should be, doesn’t it? I am braver already, for the knowledge of it. It shall make no difference between us?”
“There is no difference, Dawn,” said he.
“No. It is only in the story-books that they sigh, and groan and utter silly nonsense. We are not like that. Perhaps, after a bit, you will meet some one you care for greatly—not plump, or blond, or German, perhaps, but still—”
“Doch you are flippant?”
“I must say those things to keep the tears back. You would not have me wailing here in the street. Tell me just one thing, and there shall be no more fluttering breaths and languishing looks. Tell me, when did you begin to care?”