“I don’t know—I hardly knew I’d said it. And yet I believe what I said is true. More, I believe you believe so, too. Isn’t that the truth?”
“Some day—yes; I’m sure,” she said, looking at him solemnly.
“When, I wonder?”
He felt as though something uncanny was in this conversation, a moment of rare and absolute truth had brought a flash of the future. Indeed, the words he had spoken astonished him as much as they had Inga. Yet he felt a sense of conviction, as though, before the verity of his work which faced them, they, too, had faced the truth.
“Are you—sorry?” she said, at length, timidly.
“That the dreaming is over?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said slowly. “I feel as though now we can talk to each other.”
“That is true,” she said, moving nearer, and she added, “Mr. Dan.”
“Trying to tease me?” he asked, smiling.
She shook her head. He was looking into his canvases hungrily; he did not see her eyes or comprehend the significance of her return to the old deference, but, for a moment, while they stood gazing at the victory on the canvas, she swayed against him slightly, and her hand slipped under his arm as though clinging to its protection.