“Of course. I know that. Didn’t he pick me up out of the snow and carry me home? He moved as though he had a feather on his arm. You are very strong too, Pete—very strong. Are your eyes hazel?”
“No; blue.”
“I always liked blue eyes. I like to imagine that Hugh is just the Viking sort of man I dreamed about when I was a little girl. You think I’m a silly goose, don’t you?”
“Yes, rather.”
“Don’t keep trying to pull your hand away, dear; you can’t guess how it comforts me. I’m awfully alone here, and strange. I don’t suppose you know how queer and frightening it’s been—this getting lost and being brought here in the dark, and then—living on in the dark, just trusting my instincts, my intuitions, instead of my eyes. Voices tell a lot about people, don’t they?—more than I ever dreamed they could. Pete, there is nothing in that—that splendid, generous thing Hugh did, the thing I am not to talk about, nothing to keep Hugh now from going back to the world—some place—that is, far away from where it happened—and beginning again, is there?”
“I hope not, Sylvie.”
She sighed. “Of course it was wonderful. If he hadn’t told me of it, I never should have known half of his greatness; yet I can’t help wishing he were free. It’s sad to think there will always be the memory of that dreadful suffering and danger in his life.”
“Very sad,” said Pete.
“How alone we both are—he and I! Bella, and you, Pete—don’t be angry, please—I don’t think you quite understand Hugh, quite appreciate him.”
“Perhaps not.”