"But you are. You are there. And it's delightful to have you."
His face, which had turned very white, flushed, but not with pleasure. It quivered with some sombre and sultry wave of pain.
"I meant," he said, "if I were always there."
His eyes searched her. She would not look at him.
"Nobody," she said, "can be—always."
"You wouldn't know it. You wouldn't see me—when you were immersed."
"I'm afraid," she said, "I always am, I always shall be—immersed."
"Won't there be moments?"
"Oh, moments! Very few."
"I wouldn't care how few there were," he said. "I know there can't be many."