Then all the invisible little bonds which had grown between them in six years tightened suddenly and all Matthew’s repressions and evasions crumbled. For one moment bigger than all reason, he held her against his heart and as he bent his head to hers Cecily looked up at the man who understood her and thought with her and for her and she trusted herself to the comfort of his arms, while he said foolish, shaken things and broke off to press his lips into the soft hollow of her neck.
Then she drew away, but very, very gently.
“It’s a terrible confusion, isn’t it? There’s nothing for us; little for you and Fliss; and nothing for Dick and me. All our lives are tangled up together and we can’t straighten it out.”
The dream had not quite gone from Matthew’s eyes as he looked down at her soft, flushed cheeks and the waves of dark hair.
“You think we couldn’t, you and I, for each other?”
“I’ve three children, Matthew. I couldn’t start over.”
“I’d love the children. It would all be arranged so easily—so quickly. You’d not need to have the slightest embarrassment or pain. And to bring you happiness, Cecily—to keep you in the midst of the happiness you deserve and need—might be what only I could do. I’d try, dear.”
Cecily sat silent, her hands pressed against her face. Whether it was pity or hesitation or horror that she felt he could not tell. But to-night Matthew was not a philosopher, but a man with intense desires and hopes. He pressed his advantage.
“After it was settled we’d be able to go away—away to places you’ve never seen—we’d learn about the world together.”
He wanted to take her in his arms again, but she gave him no opportunity.