"I—don't know. Wait."
Wet cheek against his shoulder, lips a-quiver, her tragic eyes looked out into space seeing nothing yet except the spectre of this man's unhappiness.
Not for herself had the tears come, the mouth quivered. The flash of passionate emotion in him had kindled in her only a response as blameless as it was deep.
Sorrow for him, for his passion recognised but only vaguely understood, grief for a comradeship forever ended now—regret for the days that now could come
no more—but no thought of self as yet, nothing of resentment, of the lesser pity, the baser pride.
If she had trembled it was for their hopeless future; if she had wept it was because she saw his boyhood passing out of her life like a ghost, leaving her still at heart a girl, alone beside the ashes of their friendship.
As for marriage she knew it would never be—that neither he nor she dared subscribe to it, dared face its penalties and its punishments; that her fear of his unknown world was as spontaneous and abiding as his was logical and instinctive.
There was nothing to do about it. She knew that instantly; knew it from the first;—no balm for him, no outlook, no hope. For her—had she thought about herself,—she could have entertained none.
She turned her head on his shoulder and looked up at him out of pitiful, curious eyes.
"Clive, must this be?"