"I don't know what it is," she said presently, half aloud, "but I do know what it isn't."
She put on her cap again, pulling it over her ears with both hands and much care, and staring while she did it at a slug in the path in front of her.
"And what it isn't," she said after another interval, shaking her head and screwing up her face into an expression of profoundest negation, "is love."
"Well," she added, deeply astonished.
Then, with a flash of insight, "It's because he works."
Then, with a quick desire to cover up the wound to her vanity, "If he didn't get lost in his work he'd remember he loves me—it's only that he forgets."
Then, with a white flare of candour, "He's a bigger thing than I am."
Then, with the old eagerness to help, "So it's my business to see that he can be big in happy peace."
Then, remembrance smiting her with its flat, cold hand, "But he is happy."
Then, "So where do I come in?"