Her voice quivered again.
“You tell me so,” he answered.
“It’s true.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“But,” she began, almost desperately, “it’s true, Robin, oh, it’s true! When Fritz—”
She stopped. She was choking.
“Oh—Fritz!” he said with scathing contempt.
“No, no, listen! You’ve got to listen.” She put her hand on his arm. “When Fritz saw me—afterwards he—he was afraid of me. He couldn’t speak to me. He just looked and said—and said—”
Tears were running down behind the veil. He put up his hand to hers, which still touched his arm.
“Don’t tell me what he said. What do I care? Viola, you know I’ve almost longed for this—no, not that, but—can’t you understand that when one loves a woman one loves something hidden, something mystical? It’s so much more than a face that one loves. One doesn’t want to live in a house merely because it’s got a nice front door.”