must have believed that it was that way with her still. For no thought concerning it disturbed her tender, tremulous happiness with this man beside her who still held her hands imprisoned against his breast.
And presently they were seated on the couch at the foot of her bed, excited, garrulous, exchanging gossip, confidences, ideas long unuttered, desires long unexpressed.
Under the sweeping flashlight of her intelligence the four years of his absence were illuminated, and passed swiftly in review for his inspection. Of loneliness, perplexity, grief, deprivation, she made light, laughingly, shrugging her smooth young shoulders.
"All that was yesterday," she said. "There is only to-day, now—until to-morrow becomes to-day. You won't go away, will you, Clive?"
"No."
"There is no need of your going, is there?—no reason for you to go—no duty—moral obligation—is there, Clive?"
"None."
"You wouldn't say so just because I wish you to, would you?"
"I wouldn't be here at all if there were any reason for me to be—there."
"Then I am not robbing her of you?—I am not depriving her of the tiniest atom of anything that you owe to her? Am I, Clive?"