Her hands unloosed and melted into his again, and he resumed the pressure which became almost painful, so close it was and earnest.
‘Dear,’ he said, with his voice trembling, ‘you must not think I mean that only. That would be so were I a better man. I mean that I am not worthy to touch your dear hand or the hem of your garment. Oh, listen: I have not been a good man, Grace.’
She released one of her hands and put it up softly and touched his lips.
‘All that has been is done with,’ she said, ‘for both of us—everything has become new—’
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘if you are content with that, it is so; it shall ever be so. Yet I would not accept that peace of God without telling you—without letting you know—’
‘Nothing,’ she said, ‘or I might have to confess, too.’
‘You,’ he cried, seizing her in his arms with a kind of rage. ‘Oh, never name yourself in such a comparison. You don’t know, you can’t imagine—’
Once more she stopped his mouth.
‘No more, no more; we are both content in what is, and happy in what is to come.’
‘Happy is too mild a word. It is not big enough, nor strong enough for me.’