"Yes," he answered quietly, "I love some one else."
"Some one you can—marry?" She could not look at him, but question him she must.
"No—not some one I can marry."
The room was very still for a moment; but she seemed to hear the sorrow of his voice echoing and re-echoing through it.
"You will get over that in time," she whispered.
"I will never get over it," he answered.
And now she looked at him. She had wondered if he loved her; looking into his sad eyes, she knew. A sob swelled her throat and broke from her lips. And then they sprang up and faced each other.
So they stood, gazing at each other. And though they neither spoke nor touched each other, the heart of each was clear to the other—more clear, indeed, than speech or touch could have made them. So they stood, looking into each other's eyes, and unbearable pain and unbelievable ecstasy were mingled in those few, silent moments. Then the ecstasy died; the pain became cruelly intense. And more than pain shone dark in Sheila's eyes; fear crouched there, and Peter saw it. She loved him—and she was afraid of him. More intolerably than anything else, that hurt him—that she should have to be afraid of him.
"Peter," she said—and her voice trembled so that he could scarcely understand her words, "Peter, I want you to marry Charlotte for—for my sake." And her fear stared at him out of her eyes, stared at him and implored him.
She was asking him to put Charlotte between them. He realized that now. She was telling him that Ted and Eric were not enough to keep them apart.