“He wants to see me. He is very down. He needs—” she stopped, “he needs help so.”
She again extended the letter to him.
“I think if you read it—it would be better. You’d understand.”
“I understand,” he said quietly, “I am at a point in life when one can understand such things. I understand that a person one has cared for cannot possibly pass completely out of your life. If you can help him now, do so. I think that will make you happier, won’t it?”
She raised her eyes suddenly in startled inquiry.
“You mean that?” she said after a full moment of intense absorption.
“I mean there must be perfect faith between us,” he said with kindness.
“Thank you,” she said, but so low that it was almost a whisper. She rose very straight and slender, looking down at him. “I shall never break that faith, Mr. Dan.”
The ending of the interview left them with a feeling of emptiness. They had tried to face the issue and each had instinctively avoided it by the memory of the old tenderness which lay in their eyes and lingered still in the echo of their voices.
“Live your life, Inga,” he said impulsively, “in whatever way it must be lived to bring you happiness. That is the least I can do for you, but remember one thing—what you’ve done for me no one can ever undo. No one can take this place from you—it’s yours.”