He recalled with what morbid care he had concealed the pangs he felt; how he had dreaded lest any eye discern his pain. What must it be to endure, not only sorrow and desertion and betrayal, but to endure it all openly; to meet in every eye a question, to hear on every lip a sneer, to know that every heart held scorn?
This is the doom that has driven hermits to the desert, that has tempted women to—
"From the world's bitter wind,
Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb,"
These thoughts did not formulate themselves in his brain; they rushed upon him—instantaneous impressions—and vanished, leaving ineffable compassion in his heart, as he looked at the anguished face of Myron Holder. She was weakly trying to steady herself, and at last said in a lifeless voice, "I can stand alone now."
"Forgive me, Myron," said Homer, too much moved to feel any awkwardness; "forgive me—I frightened you."
"No," she said, "you did not frighten me; I thought——" She paused.
"You thought——" He began, but hesitated.
"I thought you were he" she said, in breathless tones. Homer shuddered at the inflection of the words. In such accents might one acknowledge Death's dominion over one well-beloved. He threw off the chill at his heart and caught her hands.
"Myron," he said, "who is he?"
"I cannot tell you," she answered.