"You are too kind—too good," he said, in an unsteady tone.
The last time he had said almost the same words had been when he made his first visit to her after his long illness. Then she had been touched, far more than he. She looked at him for a few moments and saw that he felt very strongly.
"Do not distress yourself," she said gently. "Pray do not—it hurts me, too. I mean what I say. I do not believe you can be faithful in love now—to any one. You gave all you had to give long ago. But I have watched you since we became what we are now, and I will do you justice. I do not know any man who can be a more true and devoted friend. You see, I meant what I said."
"If it is true—if I can be a friend to any one, I will be one to you. But that is not what I would have, if I could choose."
"What would you have, then?"
"What is impossible. That is what one would always like. Let us not talk of it. It does no good to wish for what is beyond wishing. I thank you for what you have said—dear. I shall not forget it. Few women could be so good as you are to me. You would have the right to be very different if you chose."
"No, I should not. There are reasons—well, as you say, let us not talk about it. We have made up our minds to meet and part as we should—kindly always, lovingly as friends love, truthfully now, since there is nothing left for us to distrust."
She had never spoken to him in this way in all the meetings that had followed his recovery. He wondered if there had been any real change in her nature, or whether this were not at last the assertion of her natural self. She spoke so seriously and quietly that he could not doubt her.
"I have seen that you can act in that way," she continued presently. "You have done more for the sake of the mere memory of your friend than many men would do for love itself."
"Not so much as I would do for the memory of love," said Ghisleri, turning his face away.