"Why don't one's thoughts mind?" she cried. "When they are told what's right, why don't they come right?"
"God knows," he answered. "I sit here and tell myself that if you don't love me I should let it go at that, and think the way I did before the solemn little pastor in Paris got so serious over what wasn't meant to be serious. I've tried, little woman. I tried hard when I left you with Peter. I could n't do it then, and I can't do it now. I hear over and over again the words the little minister spoke, and they grow more wonderful and fine every day. I think he must have known then that I loved you or he would not have uttered them."
The leaves in the olive trees rustled beneath the stars.
"Dear wife," he cried, "when are you coming to me?"
He did not move. She saw his broad shoulders against the wall. She saw his arms folded over his chest as if to keep them tight. She saw his clenched lips.
"God help me to keep silent," she prayed.
"When are you coming?" he repeated wearily. "Will it be one year or two years or three years?"
She moistened her lips. He seemed to speak as though it were only a matter of time—as though it were he who was being punished and it was only a question of how long. She sank back with her eyes upon the stars darting shafts of white light through the purple.
"And what am I going to do while I'm waiting?" he went on, as though to himself.
Grimly she forced out the words:—