He nodded.
“And my money has not bought it, nor my body won it.”
“Nor your mind,” Jennings added softly. “Nor your will. Not any of these things.”
“It could come over there in the prairie-town.”
“Or with the niggers,” suggested Jennings with a slight smile.
The new conception gained hold on her, while she sat staring out above the palaces of the city into the evening gloom. At last she uttered in a low moan,—“After all, to be bound, bound with no one to cut the cords; to be bound in spirit and flesh—no escape possible. It is ghastly!”
“You said once that you wished to burn, to feel. You remember that last night at Lake Forest?”
“And you replied—‘to dust and ashes,’” she added fiercely. “Is that all for me?”
She rose from the bench with a sweep, a touch of defiance that brought back her old impressive self. She seemed to say, “You mock me. Impossible that I, who am beautiful and keen in mind, that I who have striven, am to become mere ashes.” And the movement which challenged him, saying, “I am a woman,” said also, “I can love. Teach me, you new master, and you will find me humble. Take me, and make me over to fit your freedom.” But he made no sign of acceptance, merely looked back at her dark head with its flaming eyes, admiringly, with homage and with pity,—but with nothing more. He knew her to the bottom of her heart and he was compassionate, but he would not save her, could not save her.
“So you are going to take the commonplace,” she said at last, irritably, closing her eyes and turning her face away.