It produced in his features, in spite of his control of them, one of those quick plays of expression, the shade of a grimace, that testified as nothing else did to his race. "It's you, cara, who are deep."
Which, after an instant, she had accepted from him; she could so feel at last that it was true. "Then I shall have need of it all."
"But what would you have done," he was by this time asking, "if I
HADN'T come in?"
"I don't know." She had hesitated. "What would you?"
"Oh; io—that isn't the question. I depend upon you. I go on. You would have spoken to-morrow?"
"I think I would have waited."
"And for what?" he asked.
"To see what difference it would make for myself. My possession at last, I mean, of real knowledge."
"Oh!" said the Prince.
"My only point now, at any rate," she went on, "is the difference, as I say, that it may make for YOU. Your knowing was—from the moment you did come in—all I had in view." And she sounded it again—he should have it once more. "Your knowing that I've ceased—"