"That I love you. That is the chief thing."
The words did not sound at all like a lover's speech, as he spoke them. He had drawn himself up and stood quite straight, holding the rail with his hands. He spoke coolly, with a sort of military precision, as though he were facing an enemy's fire. There was not exactly an effort in his voice, but the tone showed that he was doing a hard thing at that moment. Then he was silent, and Helen said nothing for a long time. She was leaning over the rail, trying to see the running water in the dark.
"Thank you," she said at last, very simply, and there was another pause.
"I did not expect you to say that," he answered presently.
"Why not? We are not children, you and I. Besides--I knew it."
"Not from me!" Wimpole turned almost sharply upon her.
"No. Not from you. You wrote Henry a letter, many years ago. Do you remember? I had to read everything when he went to the asylum, so I read that, too. He had kept it all those years."
"I am sorry. I never meant you to know. But it does not matter now, since I have told you myself."
He spoke coldly again, almost indifferently, looking straight before him into the night.
"It matters a great deal," said Helen, almost to herself, and he did not hear her.