“I wonder if you ever loved me; and I wonder if I ever loved you until this moment.”
There was a silence. Outside there was a little whisper of moving wings, but no voice of bird.
There was a silence, and out of it a low voice cried softly, softly:
“Bertie, Bertie, my love, come to me.”
He took a step toward her, a second step—and then he stood, rigid, breathless, for he heard another soft voice that said:
“His honor is the honor of his mother and his sister, upon which no stain must come.”
He heard that voice, and with a cry he covered his face with his hands, and turning, fled through the open window into the garden.
She lay there on her couch, that lovely white creature who had been saved so as by fire. There are two fires: the one is the fire that consumes the heart until all that is left of it is the dust of ashes; the other is the fire that purifies the soul even unto its salvation; and yet both fires burn alike, so that men and women know not which is burning within them.
Did she know that she was saved so as by fire?
She laughed as though he could still hear her; but after her laugh there came a few moments of overwhelming bitterness that sent her on her knees by the side of the couch in self-abasement.