"I'm going to—"
"Do sit down!" he cried. Did she mean to flee? "I won't hurt you. I can't hurt you!" With an effort of his will he looked at her again; he saw her waving hair, her broad forehead, her dark eyes, her round figure, all of sweet Ellen. He looked at her, steadily and long, in the quiet room as though he should never see her again.
He saw not only her body; he saw with a clear vision her soul, and knew that his journey northward would have been in vain, that he could never in such fashion have made her his. In her gaze was all her father's quiet dignity, all his self-respect, which could not be impaired though all else were taken. She had gained, Stephen saw plainly, the resources of maturity; though she had been cruelly hurt, she still lifted her head.
But he saw more than the beauty of Ellen's body and the worth of her soul; he read her heart and found there that what he desired was to be given him. He rose to his feet without taking his eyes from her. The energy of life returned; he felt no weakness; he knew that that which he was to have was of inestimable value and he determined to be lacking in no grateful return.
Ellen moved a little toward him, her eyes now downcast.
"I have come to say good-bye."
He made no answer. The edge of the awning was slightly lifted in the breeze, the green light brightened, a shaft of sunlight struck across the room, and he stood still. He would not say, "Ellen, I am too old," or, "Ellen, I am maimed." He would not hurt her more than she had been hurt. She had, it was clear, no suspicion that Fate had given her less than the best. He stood looking at her quizzically, almost merrily, waiting for her to lift her eyes.