"No, never." The words came frankly. "First let me enjoy this human love, Michael." Her eyes pleaded. "Then I may try to be as you are, but not till then."
"It would be no enjoyment," he said. "Only a hideous mockery, a wilful lowering of your better self."
"Not of my better self, Mike—not really. I might rise to higher things afterwards, with that one beautiful memory to help me, an Eden in the desert." Her voice was humble; her eyes swam with tears—a beautiful Magdalen.
"Poor little soul!" he said. "Poor little Millicent!"
"Yes, Mike, poor little soul, poor lonely soul!"
"I wish I could do something to help you, show you that there is a higher, stronger support than any poor love of mine."
"But I don't want it—at least, not now. It doesn't appeal to me. I don't want it, for if I tried to be better, I'd have to try to kill my desire for you, and even if it gives me no happiness, I'd rather have it than kill it. I couldn't relinquish it. It would be giving up the only thing I have of you—my poor, unwanted wanting of you."
"What can I say? What can I do?" Michael was in despair. "How can I help you?"
This humble, tearful Millicent made him wretched. He felt guilty and unkind. He was the innocent cause of her unhappiness. It was not possible to be human and remain untouched by her passion for himself. Yet he knew that he must not allow her to know that, or how his heart ached for her. Her spiritual loneliness horrified him. She had absolutely nothing to turn to, nothing to rely upon. Her religious observances were mere conventional occupations. And yet mixed up in the woman there was a mental quality very rare and sympathetic, a strange fitful brilliance, extremely pleasing. Once or twice on their journey she had expressed the peculiar quality of the scenery in words which were not far off prose poems. It had puzzled him to know how her intellectual refinement could dwell in the same temple as her low characteristics.
"I don't know, Mike." Her voice was very gentle. "I don't see how you can help me."