"She died." There was a pause, before he added, "You remind me of her more than anyone I have ever known." And for both their sakes he finished, "That is one reason why I have been glad to talk to you one day, and found it perhaps too painful the next."
Meryl felt suddenly as if an icy hand had closed on her heart. His meaning to her was so obvious. But she managed to say naturally, "I am afraid it has been a great sorrow to you. Was she ill for long?"
"She died suddenly. There was a tragedy. Afterwards I came out here."
"And you have never been back?"
"No, I have never been back."
"But you will go?"
"I think not. When I came away it was like closing a book and writing 'Finis.' I do not want to reopen the book for many reasons."
"But your people?" she ventured, longing to hear more, yet fearful of staying his unexpected confidence.
"I have no people," and his voice was suddenly stern.
"But your home?..." bravely; "your country?..."