"You don't know how glad I'd be," he sighed, "to feel that I wasn't quite out of it—that there was something in life for me still. I didn't want to be a bit of driftwood on the current of things."
"You're not going to be—I won't let you. Haven't you learned that sometimes we have to wait; that we can't always be going on? Just moor your soul at the landing place, and when the hour comes, you'll swing out into the current again. Much of the driftwood is only craft that broke away from the landing."
He smiled, for her fancy pleased him. An abiding sense of companionship crept into his loneliness; his isolation seemed to be shared. "And you'll stay at the landing with me," he whispered, "until the time comes to set sail again?"
"Yes."
"And—after the worst that can come—is over, we'll make it right with the world and go abroad together?"
"Yes." Her voice was very low now.
"And we'll be the best of friends, for always?"
"Yes—the best of friends in all the world."
"And you'll promise me that, if you're ever sorry, you'll come straight and tell me—that you'll ask me to set you free?"
"I promise."