He had seized her hands in his greeting and still held them, drawing her nearer and nearer to him by a power that was not wholly physical force; while she, having forgotten a certain magnetism she had always felt in his presence, did not know how to protest.
Finally freeing her hand, she pulled forward a deep porch chair, and intrenched in its protecting arms, motioned him to take its mate.
"I did not know that you were away," she managed to say at last.
"Then why did you not write me only one word, 'Come'?"
"Because, because," she stammered miserably, "I didn't think of it, because it was better that you shouldn't," and she hid her face between her hands to free it from the yearning of his eyes.
"Poppea, do you not understand how much and why I care for you, for yourself and that only?" he said presently, his voice changing from the ringing, joyous tone of his greeting to one serious to the verge of sadness.
"I believe that you do, with all my heart and soul," she answered, and continued in an almost reverent tone, "Few men would have acted toward me as you did that night of humiliation. I did not realize it fully then, but I do now, and this makes me understand all the more the difference between what you offer me and the best I have to give."
"Even so, a little is a beginning, dear, and I can wait in patience if you will only let me be near you and teach you what love means. You do not even yet dream what it is, you, who, above all others I have met, were made for it and cannot be yourself without it." He saw that Poppea was moved, was trembling, and for the moment he believed he had almost won.
"Perhaps I have not yet dreamed as you say," she answered gently, "but of this I am certain: love does not come by learning, love knows and is sure."
Winslow's face changed, his throat felt dry, his lips seemed riveted together, his whole being fell under the spell of a complete depression.