"I can't bear to think of your having been exposed to it."
"That was the least. He died—afraid. That is so terrible to me, somehow. I wouldn't mind all of the horrible rest if only he hadn't died—afraid. I wonder if you know what I mean. He lived so—so meekly to have died—that way. Afraid."
"Yes," he said, "I think I do know." He wanted to keep his gaze away from her and to keep it cool, but somehow each time their eyes met a flame leaped up out of embers, a fiery new consciousness that kept dancing.
"He and—and my parents—you see, they—Well, I told you everything in the letter."
"Are your parents returning home?"
"Yes. That's what I've come to say. You see—they—we—we've decided to remain here two months. Until September—up in my little apartment, all of us. In September Zoe is to have her audition with Auchinloss. So much depends on that. We've such hopes, her teacher and I. She's pure lyric soprano. We think grand-opera brand. And now with the war on, more and more the American girl is getting her chance. That's why my parents have finally consented to wait here with me until then. After that, Zoe is to stay with Ida Blair and we three—my parents and I—are going home—together. That is what I have come to tell you. I'll be giving up my work with you in—September. I'm going home—with them."
He regarded her, his flush going down perceptibly.
"You're fooling."
"No," she said, trying to smile. "I suppose it's about the most solemn job I have left to do in life—going home."
"Why, you—you can't go back there."