He did understand it with his mind, but he was a little dazed, like one who has stood too near where the lightning struck. The hope he had kept buried alive so long—buried alive because it wouldn't die—could not be brought out into a blinding glory like this without shrinking—pain—exquisite terrifying pain.
The knowledge she had acquired by her own suffering stood her in good stead now. She did not mistake, as the Rose he had married might have done, the weakness of his response for coldness—indifference.
She went back and began making love to him more gently; released herself from his arms, led him over to her one big chair, and made him sit down in it, settled herself upon the arm of it and contented herself with one of his hands. Presently he took one of hers, bent his face down over it and brushed the back of it with his lips.
The timidity of that caress, with all it revealed to her, was too much for her. She swallowed one sob, and another, but the next one got away from her and she broke out in a passionate fit of weeping.
That roused him from his daze a little, and he pulled her down in his arms—held her tight—comforted her.
When she got herself in hand again, she got up, went away to wash her face, and coming back in the room again, lighted a reading-lamp and drew down the blinds.
"Rose," he said presently, "what are we going to do?"
She knew she was not answering the true intent of his question when she said:
"Well, for one thing we can get a little supper. I don't know what we've got to eat, but we won't care—to-night."
There was a ring of decision in his voice that startled her a little when he said: