"It's so—so cold."
My questioning silence made her attempt to explain.
"One wants life more beautiful than that," she said. "One wants—— There are things one needs, things nearer one."
We became aware of a jangling at the janitor's bell. Our opportunity for talk was slipping away. And we were both still undecided, both blunderingly nervous and insecure. We were hurried into clumsy phrases that afterwards we would have given much to recall.
"But how could life be more beautiful," I said, "than when it serves big human ends?"
Her brows were knit. She seemed to be listening for the sound of the unlocking gate.
"But," she said, and plunged, "one wants to be loved. Surely one needs that."
"You see, for me—that's gone."
"Why should it be gone?"
"It is. One doesn't begin again. I mean—myself. You—can. You've never begun. Not when you've loved—loved really." I forced that on her. I over emphasized. "It was real love, you know; the real thing.... I don't mean the mere imaginative love, blindfold love, but love that sees.... I want you to understand that. I loved—altogether...."