“No, Constance, no!” he protested again.
“Think it over, Henri,” she repeated. “Think it all out. I shall think of Addie also. You know how passionately devoted I am to him. But ...”
“Constance, it is all too late.”
“But think it over, Henri.”
“Yes, yes, Constance, I shall ... I shall think it over.”
“And, if we decide upon it ... let us do it ... let us decide to do it with something of affection for each other ...”
“Yes, Constance ... yes, with affection ... You are nice ... you are kind ...”
He looked at her, his chest heaving with emotion; a haze dimmed the boyish glance of his eyes. She had meant to go, quietly, to leave him alone. She went to the door, without another word, another look, wishing to leave him alone with his thoughts.
“Constance!” he cried, hoarsely.
She looked round. He was standing before her; and she saw him quivering, trembling with the emotion, the shock which the reality of life had sent shuddering through him. For a moment they stood in front of each other; and, because they saw into each other’s eyes, they told each other once more—silently, without words—that they understood each other! A great gratitude, an emotion that to him was almost superhuman shot through his small soul and flowed over her. And, impotently, he cried once more, like a man in a fever: