"Oh, you always were strong! But never mind. We're quits now! You can't stand there any more, saying: 'Just look how you treat the man that saved your life!'"
"Millie! When have I ever said so?"
"You did—you did—you did! You have never left off saying it for one single minute for the last five years."
He broke into a laugh that was a little tremulous. "Millie, what do you mean?"
"Oh, you know what I mean. That has always been the trouble, hasn't it? You have always known what I meant. You knew, that day the water spouted out. I didn't. It seemed so impertinent of you to know more about me than I knew myself. But now ... I think it may be rather restful ... to think you know the worst of me! You know it all, you see ... even about the scars on my back."
He made some kind of incoherent exclamation. He had always meant to succeed; but now that this amazing success was his, he could not believe in it. A wild idea came to him that his bliss, like the dread sword of Damocles, was poised above his head by a hair; that in an instant it might fall, and irretrievable ruin would result. He was too exalted to try to think out how it had come about that this girl was his at last. She was injured—he could not say how deeply; she was in pain, and he was distracted with anxiety. He was unable to grasp the idea of happiness. Afterwards, when he looked back upon it, he believed that the underlying idea of his mood was that of greatness. All triviality seemed to be washed away from life, and he trod the paths of a vast experience as the Greeks trod the tragic stage, raised up on cothurns. It was best, he saw, that joy should come thus sublimated by grief. If it was to be transient, he should still have had it. He had lived indeed; he had seen the Vision of the Grail. Life was a sacrament henceforward.
"Oh, I am so thirsty!" gasped Melicent
He suddenly remembered that he carried in his pocket the flask that he used when travelling. There was still a little wine and water left in it, and he poured it out. Seating himself beside her, he carefully drew her up, propping her weight against him, and held the cup to her lips.
When she had drunk, they sat on so, in silence.
"Mr. Hall has been telling me how it has all been my fault," she said, after a pause. "He has told me how vain and selfish I am, and how I take all and give nothing. Poor Lance! I never gave him anything, Bert—not even a kiss. I did give you one, didn't I?"