This was harder, yet her answer correctly interpreted her feeling. "I—I—really don't know."
The doubt spurred him. "You do not love him. You could not—after the way he has treated you. You must have love. A glance at your face would tell a dullard that it is as necessary to your existence as air or water. You cannot be happy without it. It is life to you; more than sustenance. You must be wrapped in it, touch it at every point, feel it everywhere around you. Your being cries out for a passion all-absorbing; you will take nothing less. I would—"
"Give me such love?" She had thrilled under his truthful analysis of her nature, and now she cried out the passion of her sex, the eternal desire for a love everlasting as that of a mother. "Is such possible?—a love that never stales, that endures after the hot blood cools and beauty fades? Could you love me through old age? No, no! A woman can, but never a man!"
"I can! By God! I can!" he cried, blazing in response to her passion. "I'll prove it, for sooner or later you are going to love me."
She laughed a little wearily. "There spake the bold man. Well—you have my good wishes."
"Your—good—wishes?"
"Don't flatter yourself." Her staying hand checked his enthusiasm. "You said just now that I didn't love—my husband. Perhaps you are right. I don't know. I have no standard by which to judge, and only love could supply one. So far—you have failed to do so. I like you—very much; but—if I ever love again, the man must lift me out of myself, make me forget—him, myself, the whole world."
"I'll do it!" he confidently exclaimed; then, sobering, added: "I want you to promise one thing. It isn't much—simply to give serious thought to your position while I am away—to remember what I have just told you and to forget that first foolish mistake that cost me so much. Now will you?"
"Surely," she honestly answered.
"And—if possible—give me an answer?"