"If you give me ten years it would do no good."
"I see," he said; "I see."
He gripped the edge of the mantelpiece with both his hands; his tense arms trembled from the shoulders to the wrists; his hold relaxed. He straightened himself and hid his shaking hands in his coat pockets. There were tears at the edges of his eyelids, the small, difficult tears that cut their way through the flesh that abhors them.
She saw them.
"Ah, Robert—do you care for me like that?"
"You know how I care for you."
He stopped as he swung away from her, remembering that he had failed in courtesy.
"Thank you," he said, simply, "for telling me the truth."
He reached the door, and she rose and came after him. He shook his head as a sign to her not to follow him. She saw that he was going from her because he was tortured and dumb with suffering and with shame.
Then she knew what she must do. She called to him, she entreated.