“Is it not?”
“I am no Madonna, but ... a woman with fairly emancipated views. If you were happy in what you did, it was no sin, for happiness is good.... Were you happy, I ask you? For in that case what you did was ... good.”
“Yes.”
“No.... Therefore I have sinned, sinned against myself, have I not? Forgive me ... Madonna.”
She was troubled at the sound of his voice, which, gently broken, wrapped her about as with a spell; she was troubled to see him sitting there, filling with his body, his personality, his existence a place in her room, beside her. In a single second she lived through hours, feeling her calm love lying heavy within her, like a sweet weight; feeling a longing to throw her arms about him and tell him that she worshipped him; feeling also an intense sorrow at what he had admitted, that once again he had been unhappy. Hardly able to control herself in her compassion, she rose, moved towards him and laid her hand upon his shoulder:
“Tell me, do you mean all this? Is it all true? Is it true that you have been living as you say and yet have not been happy?”
“Perfectly true, on my soul.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“I couldn’t help it.”