“I lied a while ago. He did not die a soldier’s death. I told the same lie to you long ago. Words. Words. And yet you went to Heaven happy because I lied to you and kept on lying to you. Words. And yet you died a happy woman, because of that lie.
“He lied to you. He took you from me with lies. Words. Lies. And yet they made you happy. Where is truth?
“You lived happy and died happy with a lie. Because I lied like what they call a man and a gentleman. Truth!”
He looked searchingly, wonderingly at the face before him. Did he expect to see the light fade out, to see the face wither under the bitter revelation?
“I’ve been everything,” he went on, still trying 303 to make his point, “I’ve done everything, that men say I’ve been and done. Why?
“Well––Why?” he asked sharply. “Did it make any difference?
“Hard, grasping, tricky, men call me that to my face––sometimes. Well––Why not? Does it make any difference? Did it make any difference with you? If I had thought it would–– But it didn’t. Lies, trickery, words! They served with you. They made you happy. Truth!”
But as he looked into the face and the smiling light of truth persisted in it, there came over his soul the dawn of a wonder. And the dawn glowed within him, so that it came to his eyes and looked out wondering at a world remade.
“Is it true, Lucy?” he asked gently. “Can that be truth, at last? Is that what you mean? Did you, deep down, somewhere beneath words and beneath thoughts, did you, did you really understand––a little? And do you, somewhere, understand now?
“Then tell me. Was it worth the lies? Down underneath, when you understood, which was the truth? The thing I did––which men would call fine? Or was it the words?