"It is wiped out," she repeated simply. "The walls that stood there—all of them—are gone. It is the act of fate, of God! I had not known how awful a thing is life. It is all—wiped away by fire. Those walls—"
"But not my sins, not my selfishness, not the wrong I have done! Even all that has happened to me, or may happen to me, wouldn't be punishment enough for that. Now you asked me if you were not my friend? Of course you are not. How could you be?"
"It would be easier now than ever before," she said. But he shook his head from side to side, slowly, dully, monotonously.
"No, no," he said, "it would not be right,—I would not allow it."
"I remember now," she said slowly, "how you hesitated. It must have been agony for you. I knew there was something, all the time. Of course, I could not tell what. But it must have been agony for you to offer to tell me—of this."
"Oh, I might have told you then. Perhaps it would have been braver if I had. I tried it a dozen times, but couldn't. I don't pretend to say whether it was selfishness or cowardice, or just kindness to—her. If I ever loved her, it was so faint and far away—but it isn't right to say that, now."
"No. Do not. Do not."
"I don't know. There are a heap of things I don't know. But I knew I loved you. It was for ever. That was what was meant to be. It seemed to me I owed debts on every hand—to the world—to you: I tried—tried to pay—to pay you fair, ache for ache, if I could, for the hurts I'd given you. And you wouldn't let me. You were wonderful. Before the throne of God—here—now, I'll say it: I love you! But now it's over."
"It is easier now," she said again. "You must not give way. You are strong. You must not be beaten. You must keep your courage."
"Give me a moment," he said. "Give me a chance to get on my feet again. I want to be game as I can."