“That is as radically true as it is epigrammatic,” blurted I.
“And truth is more than epigram?”
“One should delight in truth; I do delight in epigram; there seems little chance for choice here.”
It seemed to me that I had said quite what I wished there, but she only looked at me enigmatically.
She arranged a flower in her dress as she almost idly replied, though she did not look me full in the face as she had done before: “Well, then, let me add to your present delight by saying that you may go play till doomsday, Dr. Marmion. Your work is done.”
“I do not understand.”
Her eyes were on me now with the directness she could so well use at need.
“I did not suppose you would, despite your many lessons at my hands. You have been altruistic, Dr. Marmion; I fear critical people would say that you meddled. I shall only say that you are inquiring—scientific, or feminine—what you please!... You can now yield up your portfolio of—foreign affairs—of war—shall I say? and retire into sedative habitations, which, believe me, you become best.... What concerns me need concern you no longer. The enemy retreats. She offers truce—without conditions. She retires.... Is that enough for even you, Professor Marmion?”
“Mrs. Falchion,” I said, finding it impossible to understand why she had so suddenly determined to go away (for I did not know all the truth until afterwards—some of it long afterwards), “it is more than I dared to hope for, though less, I know, than you have heart to do if you willed so. I know that you hold some power over my friend.”
“Do not think,” she said, “that you have had the least influence. What you might think, or may have intended to do, has not moved me in the least. I have had wrongs that you do not know. I have changed—that is all. I admit I intended to do Galt Roscoe harm.