“More than indefinitely—most definitely, I fear,” he said. “Heaven only knows.” But here he broke off.
“Oh, Rex, I am so sorry for you,” said his cousin impulsively. “And you are so unselfish. When I compare myself with you, I do feel so ashamed. Just to think of your bothering yourself with that silly little goose of a child.”
“Poor little girl!” he said. “Under good influence there is the making of a nice woman in her, I think. I’m sure Eva would have been good to her. Perhaps it’s partly that,” he went on simply. “If ever I try to—to do any little thing for others, it seems to bring her nearer me.”
The tears rose to Florence’s eyes—assuredly she was not a thorough-going Helmont.
“It is beautiful to feel like that,” she said.
“I can’t altogether pity you and Eva, Rex. The sympathy between you is so perfect; it would be worth living for to feel like that for an hour of one’s life.”
Major Winchester smiled.
“Yes,” he said, “I do feel it in that way sometimes. And the best of it is, that when you do feel sympathy and union of that kind, you feel that it is independent of circumstances—that it is, so to speak, immortal. Nothing that could happen could altogether shipwreck us.”
Florence sighed deeply.
“I understand,” she said; “or, at least, I understand that I don’t understand; and there is a certain satisfaction, almost exhilaration, in realising that there are things, good and beautiful things, which one can’t understand.”