"At your pleasure," he assented gently. "Only—don't let anything worry you."
Impulsively she caught both his hands in a clasp at once soft and strong, wholly straightforward and friendly.
"Do you know," she said in a laughing voice, her head thrown back, soft shadows darkening her mystical eyes, the lamplight caressing her hair until it was as if her head were framed in a halo of pure gold, bright against the sombre background of that mean, bare room—"Do you know, dear man, that you are quite, quite blind?"
"I think," he said with his twisted smile, "it would be well for me if I were physically blind at this instant!"
She shook her head in light reproof.
"Blind, quite blind!" she repeated. "And yet—I'm glad it's so with you. I wouldn't have you otherwise for worlds."
She withdrew her hand, took up the lamp, moved a little away from him, and paused, holding his eyes.
"For Love, too, is blind," she said softly, with a quaint little nod of affirmation. "Good night."
He started forward, eyes aflame; took a single pace after her; paused as if against an unseen barrier. His hands dropped by his sides; his chin to his chest; the light died out of his face and left it gray and deeply lined.
In the hallway the lamp's glow receded, hesitated, began to ascend, throwing upon the unpapered walls a distorted silhouette of the rude balustrade; then disappeared, leaving the hall cold with empty darkness.