“Are you going back to him?” Ralph gasped.
“I don’t know—I can’t tell. I shall stay here as long as I may. I don’t want to think—I needn’t think. I don’t care for anything but you, and that’s enough for the present. It will last a little yet. Here on my knees, with you dying in my arms, I’m happier than I have been for a long time. And I want you to be happy—not to think of anything sad; only to feel that I’m near you and I love you. Why should there be pain—? In such hours as this what have we to do with pain? That’s not the deepest thing; there’s something deeper.”
Ralph evidently found from moment to moment greater difficulty in speaking; he had to wait longer to collect himself. At first he appeared to make no response to these last words; he let a long time elapse. Then he murmured simply: “You must stay here.”
“I should like to stay—as long as seems right.”
“As seems right—as seems right?” He repeated her words. “Yes, you think a great deal about that.”
“Of course one must. You’re very tired,” said Isabel.
“I’m very tired. You said just now that pain’s not the deepest thing. No—no. But it’s very deep. If I could stay—”
“For me you’ll always be here,” she softly interrupted. It was easy to interrupt him.
But he went on, after a moment: “It passes, after all; it’s passing now. But love remains. I don’t know why we should suffer so much. Perhaps I shall find out. There are many things in life. You’re very young.”
“I feel very old,” said Isabel.