"I wish sometimes—you would not talk like that."
"Like what?"
"I know it's pretty—it's your imagination. I love it, but now——"
He felt cold. "Now?" he said faintly.
She sat quite still.
"You mean—you think—I should be better, better perhaps——-"
He was realising things very swiftly. He felt anger, indeed, anger at the dull course of fate, but also sympathy for her lack of understanding—a sympathy near akin to pity.
"Dear," he said, and he could see by her whiteness how intensely her spirit pressed against the things she could not say. He put his arms about her, he kissed her ear, and they sat for a time in silence.
"If I were to consent to this?" he said at last, in a voice that was very gentle.
She flung her arms about him, weeping wildly. "Oh, if you would," she sobbed, "if only you would!"