"What do you mean?" I demanded. We seemed to be so mysteriously one, that the strength which deserted him passed into me. "Are you not satisfied?" I added. "I must go."
In a flash, he was master again. He flung himself across my path.
"No!" he cried. "You shall not go! Some meddling idiot has deceived me. There has been a horrible, an unspeakable mistake. Gertrude Langley, it was you I met in Derlingham. It was you I watched in Traxelby church. Gertrude Langley, it is you I love with my whole soul. It is you, it is you, it is you! I shall not let you go!"
His words sang all round me like birds. My battle-worn, enfeebled spirit reeled under such bursts of music, such flashes of glory. I made one last agonizing effort to play the conventional part: to rebuke and repel him, to parade amazement, shame, and a dishonest show of anger. But he was too strong. He dominated me so, that I could not even pause to marvel at the miracle, or to ask myself if it could be true. I could only totter towards him in dumb, unconditional surrender, and burst into a torrent of thankful tears.
This third time, he held me, not as he had held me before. Then, he had strained me to him like a lover; now, he supported me gravely, reverentially, as any man would support any woman who has half-fainted away. But, by swift degrees, he guessed the truth. He held me closer, he bent his lips to my ear, and he asked, with a grave wonder, in his voice of gold:
"You do not mean ... this?"
"Yes," I whispered, with my eyes closed, "I mean ... this."
For two or three seconds we were content to have it so. Then his clasp weakened. I knew what he meant, and I drew myself free.
"We forgot Susan," I said.
"Yes," he said slowly. "We forgot Susan."