"You remember all the things I said to you—before you left?"
"Yes."
"I can't say them to you now. I must wait until I get my eyes back. Then I shall say them again, and perhaps—"
"Do you think I 'd let you wait for your eyes?" she cried.
"You mean that now—"
"No, no, Peter," she interrupted, in a panic. "I did n't mean I could listen now. Only I did n't want you to think I was so selfish that if it were possible to share the light with you I—I would n't share the dark too."
"There would n't be any dark for me at all if you shared it," he answered gently.
Then she saw his lips tighten.
"We must n't talk of that," he said. "We must n't think of it."
Yet, of all the many things they discussed this morning, nothing left Marjory more to think about. It seemed that, so far, her freedom had done nothing but harm. She had intended no harm. She had desired only to lead her own life day by day, quite by herself. So she had fled from Peter—with this result; then she had fled from Teddy, who had lost his head completely; finally she had fled, not from Monte but with him, because that seemed quite the safest thing to do. It had proved the most dangerous of all! If she had driven Peter blind, Monte—if he only knew it—had brought him sweet revenge, because he had made her, not blind, but something that was worse, a thousand times worse!