"I cannot guess. Tell me. Is it because you still wish to be a singer? Is that it?"
"No. That is not it."
"Then I cannot guess." He looked for the answer in her face. "Will you tell me?" he asked after a pause.
"Of what use could it be?" Her eyes met his for a moment, the lids fell, and she turned away. "Will you shut the window?" she said suddenly. "The wind blows the things about. Besides, it is getting late."
He rose and went to the window. She watched him as he shut it, turning his back to her, so that his figure stood out distinct and black against the light. She realized what a man he was. With those arms and those shoulders he could do anything, as he had once caught her in the air and saved her life, and then, again, as he had broken the cords that night at Mendoza's house. There was nothing physical which such a man could not do. He was something on which to rely in her limited life, an absolute contrast to her husband, whose vagueness irritated her, while his deadness of sensibility, where she had wrung his sensitiveness too far, humiliated her in her own eyes. She had kept her secret long, she thought, though she had kept it for the simple reason that she had no one in whom to confide.
Griggs came back from the window and sat down near her again in the low chair, looking up into her face.
"Mr. Griggs," she said, turning from his eyes and looking into the piano, "you asked me a question just now. I should like to answer it, if I were quite sure of you."
"Are you not sure of me?" he asked. "I think you might be, by this time. We were just saying that we had known each other so long."
"Yes. But—all sorts of things have happened in that time, you know. I am not the same as I was when I first knew you."
"No. You are married. That is one great difference."