“I have never been in love.”
They walked along, and he realized slowly how much she had told him... never in love.... She seemed suddenly a daughter of light alone. His entity dropped out of her plane and he longed only to touch her dress with almost the realization that Joseph must have had of Mary’s eternal significance. But quite mechanically he heard himself saying:
“And I love you—any latent greatness that I’ve got is... oh, I can’t talk, but Clara, if I come back in two years in a position to marry you—”
She shook her head.
“No,” she said; “I’d never marry again. I’ve got my two children and I want myself for them. I like you—I like all clever men, you more than any—but you know me well enough to know that I’d never marry a clever man—” She broke off suddenly.
“Amory.”
“What?”
“You’re not in love with me. You never wanted to marry me, did you?”
“It was the twilight,” he said wonderingly. “I didn’t feel as though I were speaking aloud. But I love you—or adore you—or worship you—”
“There you go—running through your catalogue of emotions in five seconds.”