“Possibly. But there the years do really step in and count for something, even for much. There is no doubt that as the years increase, the man who cares at all for intellectual pleasures is able to care for them more, is able to substitute them, without keen regret, without wailing and gnashing of teeth, for certain other pleasures, to which, perhaps, formerly he clung. That is why the man who is mentally and bodily—you know what I mean?”
“Yes.”
“Has such an immense advantage in years of decline over the man who is merely a bodily man.”
“I am sure that is true. But—”
“What is it?”
“The heart? What about that?”
“Perhaps there are some hearts that can fulfil themselves sufficiently in friendship.”
As Artois said this his eyes rested upon Hermione with an expression in them that revealed much that he never spoke in words. She put out her hand, and took his, and pressed it, holding hers over it upon the oar.
“Emile,” she said, “sometimes you make me feel unworthy and ungrateful because—because I still need, I dare to need more than I have been given. Without you I don’t know how I should have faced it.”
“Without me you would never have had to face it.”