"No, Owen, nothing; except that I'm tired of it."
"The tiredness will pass. Is that burn hurting you?"
"Not yet. I don't mind it."
He stooped and picked up the book he had dropped in his rush to her. She saw now that he looked at it as a man looks at the thing he loves, and that his hands as they touched it shook with a nervous tremor.
She came and stood by him, without speaking, and he turned and faced her.
"Nina," he said, "why did you write this terrible book? If you hadn't written it, I should never have been here."
"That's why, then, isn't it?"
"I suppose so. You had to write it, and I had to come."
"Yes, Owen," she said gently.
"You brought me here," he said.