“Ah, then,”—a very remote expression came into her eyes,—“then it would all be different.”
“All?”
“Yes. Everything would be quite different then.”
“Not our relation to each other?”
“Yes, even that. Perhaps that most of all.”
“I—I hardly like to hear you say that,” he said, struggling against a perhaps stupid, or even hateful, feeling of depression mingled with something else.
“But wouldn’t it? Think!”
“I don’t want that to change. I should hate any change in that.”
“What we want, and what we hate, doesn’t affect what has to be. And I expect at the end we shall be thankful for that. But, Dion, yes, if what you say, I could give it all up. Public singing! What would it matter then? I’m a woman, not a singer. But perhaps it will never come.”
“Who knows?” he said.