He gave a sharp sigh of relief. “I felt that he had not been. Why is it impossible?”
“There are complications. I cannot explain them. But he could not be less to me if he were dead.”
“Does he love you?”
Ora hesitated again. “I have sometimes felt—no, of course, it is impossible. I let my imagination run away with me, that was all.”
“You mean that he never told you—that he doesn’t write to you?”
“I met him only once, and I have never seen his handwriting.”
“Well, dismiss him from your mind. You have imagination and have dreamed, because your demands upon life are very great, greater than you know; and oddly enough, considering your opportunities, fruition has eluded you. But the time has come for you to live; and you could live!”
Ora looked down at her hands. They were ungloved and looked very white and small. Valdobia suddenly covered them with one of his own, and bent his face close to hers. She saw that he had forgotten his mother, and gave a little gasp.
“Ora!” he said. “Don’t you know how happy I could make you? I not only could teach you love, of which you know nothing, but we could always be companions, and you are the loneliest little creature I have ever met.”
To her astonishment she saw two tears splash on his hand, and winking rapidly discovered that they had fallen from her own eyes. As she would have detested to see a man cry, she melted further, and whispered,