'Indeed, indeed, I have more courage than I had,' said Clotilde.
His eyes dilated, steadied, speculated, weighed her.
'Put it to proof while you can believe in it!'
'How is it every one but you thinks me bold?' she complained.
'Because I carry a touchstone that brings out the truth. I am your reality: all others are phantoms. You can impose on them, not on me. Courage for one inspired plunge you may have, and it will be your salvation:—southward, over to Italy, that is the line of flight, and the subsequent struggle will be mine: you will not have to face it. But the courage for daily contention at home, standing alone, while I am distant and maligned—can you fancy your having that? No! be wise of what you really are; cast the die for love, and mount away tomorrow.'
'Then,' said Clotilde, with elvish cunning, 'do you doubt your ability to win me without a scandal?'
'Back me, and I win you!' he replied in a tone of unwonted humility: a sudden droop.
She let her hand fall. He grasped it.
'Gradations appear to be unknown to you,' she said.
He cried out: 'Count the years of life, span them, think of the work to be done, and ask yourself whether time and strength should run to waste in retarding the inevitable? Pottering up steps that can be taken at one bound is very well for peasant pilgrims whose shrine is their bourne, and their kneecaps the footing stumps. But for us two life begins up there. Onward, and everywhere around, when we two are together, is our shrine. I have worked, and wasted life; I have not lived, and I thirst to live.'