"But you let me go away for six months. I could never understand that."
"I had to, George. I couldn't be mean even for you, could I?"
"Well, I don't know." His gaze dwelt on her moodily. "Sometimes I wonder if you haven't too much conscience in your body?"
Careless as were his words, they brought stinging tears to her eyes. Her throat ached with the longing to pour out her love; but it seemed to her suddenly that a wall of personality had risen between them, and that she could only beat blindly against the impenetrable mass that divided them. She knew now that he could never understand, and yet the knowledge of this intensified rather than diminished her love. The mere physical attraction, which she had glorified into passion, was invested with the beauty and the mystery of an unattainable ideal.
"I believe you are going to cry, darling. Don't be so serious," he said, laughing.
"But you know—tell me you know that I love you."
"Of course I know it. Am I blind or a fool?"
Then before the glowing worship in her face, he caught her in his arms, while he said over and over, "I love you! I love you!"
He held her close, thrilling at her touch, seeking her warm lips with an eagerness which comforted her because she was too inexperienced to understand how ephemeral was its nature and its sweetness.
"Promise to love me always, George, as you do now," she said, passionately trying to make the fugitive joy immortal.