"Dear child," he said tenderly, "they have been deep waters!"
"The book—is it selling?" she asked.
"Yes. They told me they had good news for you."
They drifted off into talk of other things, new books, a new opera, a poet he had met. It was as if he took her into the arms of his spirit, and there she was at rest. The time flew as it always did when they were together. Jane felt the call back to life and work, the stimulus of his vitality.
Before the others came back, Martin pleaded an engagement in town, and the necessity of taking a train at six o'clock.
"Good-bye, my Jane. Whatever comes, I shall understand."
When he was gone, Jane lay on the couch they had placed for her on the balcony, looking up at the sky, and let her thoughts take shape. They flew swiftly, clearly. How Martin understood her; how tenderly he had protected her against himself—against herself. He had given his thoughts, his vitality, his devotion; he had asked nothing. There was an understanding friendship between them that was the communion of spirits. If only he had not loved her! Or was this, that they had, love? If it was, must she give it up unless she married him? She felt that she could not give it up. It was and always would be a part of her. If this was love that she felt for Martin, why did she not long for the closer union of marriage with him? Was it that she feared what marriage might do to this relation of theirs? Did it mean that she did not love him, since she felt that marriage was not necessary for the perfection of their oneness? Of course the materialistic would scoff at the idea of the marriage of minds. But she knew that Martin had impregnated her spiritual being with the germ of life as truly as she felt her book to be his child. She wondered whether Jerry would understand that.
"Asleep, Jane?" his voice said.
"No."
"Sorry I missed Christiansen; I meant to see him off. Anna has our supper ready in here by the fire. And the Bald One sends a message of urgence."