"What—do you want—to see?"
He rose to his feet and looked at her. At her, not through her, and she wondered, had he seen enough? It was as if he withdrew himself before some thought that stirred in her, menacing to peace.
"I can't tell you," he said. "I can't talk about it."
Then she knew what he meant. He was thinking of his vision, his vision of God.
He could not speak of it to her. She had never known him. This soul, with which her own claimed kindred, was hidden from her by all the veils of heaven.
"I know," she said. "Only tell me one thing. Was that what you went out to India and Central Africa to see?"
That drew him.
"No. I went out not to see it. To get away from it. I meant to give things their chance. That's why I went in for medicine. I wasn't going to shirk. I wanted to be a man. Not a long-haired, weedy thing in a soft hat."
"Was it any good?"
"Yes. I proved the unreality of things. I proved it up to the hilt. And I didn't shirk."