Philip's eyes lighted. "Don't you want me here beside you? Don't you warm to my kisses? Isn't there an awakened tenderness in you at my touch? Isn't there, dearest?"
Claire's hands moved nervously up and down the edge of the comforter. "If I should stay here with you, that would be the highest proof that I loved you, wouldn't it?"
"What else?" He looked at her, hope giving his face a renewed glow.
Was that all that love meant to him? "Is that what your years of thought have taught you?" she said aloud.
"Why, yes, Claire, the return of passion for passion, of warmth for warmth, of tenderness for tenderness, must be the last test, mustn't it?"
Despite her resolution her eyes narrowed ironically.
Philip started, and stared at her.
"Would you ever be jealous of my husband?" she asked, slowly.
His head dropped. "No—and yes. Of course, I wish he hadn't been your husband, but we can't help what fate has decreed." He raised his eyes, and then suddenly he smiled. "Claire, is it because of him that you are unwilling to tell me you love me?" he asked softly. "I think I can understand. You'll have to be freed from him in some way, and we must be married, of course."
"I am free from him. To him, I am dead. Isn't that enough?"