“It’s the red-winged blackbirds in the reeds,” he said. “Now will you let me say something—about the past?”
“It has buried itself,” she said, under her breath.
“To-morrow is Easter,” he went on, slowly. “Can there be no resurrection for dead days as there is for Easter flowers? Winter is over; Pasque Florida will dawn on a world of blossoms. May I speak, Kathleen?”
“It is I who should speak,” she said. “I meant to. It is this: forgive me for all. I am sorry.”
“I have nothing to forgive,” he said. “I was a—a failure. I—I do not understand women.”
“Nor I men. They are not what I understand. I don’t mean the mob I’ve been bred to dance with—I understand them. But a real man—” she laughed, drearily—“I expected a god for a husband.”
“I am sorry,” he said; “I am horribly sorry. I have learned many things in four years. Kathleen, I—I don’t know what to do.”
“There is nothing to do, is there?”
“Your freedom—”
“I am free.”