“In Vienna. I have not heard from her. Byrne, the chap who came up to see me after the—after the accident, sent her away. I think he's looking after her. I haven't heard from him.”
“Why did you tell me all this?”
“Because I love you, Anita. I want you to marry me.”
“What! After that?”
“That, or something similar, is in many men's lives. They don't tell it, that's the difference. I 'm not taking any credit for telling you this. I'm ashamed to the bottom of my soul, and when I look at your bandaged arm I'm suicidal. Peter Byrne urged me to tell you. He said I couldn't get away with it; some time or other it would come out. Then he said something else. He said you'd probably understand, and that if you married me it was better to start with a clean slate.”
No love, no passion in the interview now. A clear statement of fact, an offer—his past against hers, his future with hers. Her hand was steady now. The light in the priest's house had been extinguished. The chill of the mountain night penetrated Anita's white furs; and set her—or was it the chill?—to shivering.
“If I had not told you, would you have married me?”
“I think so. I'll be honest, too. Yes.”
“I am the same man you would have married. Only—more honest.”
“I cannot argue about it. I am tired and cold.”