"How I am to live without you."
There was a silence. When his self-control seemed assured once more, he said:
"Do you mean that the damage I have done is irreparable?"
"What you have done cannot be undone. You have made me—love you." Her lip trembled in a pitiful attempt to smile. "Are you, after all, about to send me forth 'between tall avenues of spears, to die?'"
"Do you still think you care for such a man as I am?" he said hoarsely.
She nodded:
"And if you leave me it will be the same, Jim. Wherever you are—living alone or married to another woman—or whether you are living at all, or dead, it will always be the same with me. Love is love. Nothing you say now can alter it. Words—yours or the words of others—merely wound me, and do not cripple my love for you. Nor can deeds do so. I know that, now. They can slay only me, not my love, Jim—for I think, with me, it is really and truly immortal."
His head dropped between his hands. She saw his body trembling at moments. After a little while she rose, and, stepping to his side, bent over him, letting her hand rest lightly on his hair.
"All I ask of you is to be patient," she whispered. "And you don't understand—you don't seem to understand me, dear. I am learning very fast—much faster and more thoroughly than I believed possible. Cynthia was here this evening. She helped me so much. She taught me a great deal—a very great deal. And your goodness—your unselfishness in coming to me this way—with your boyish amends, your unconsidered and impulsive offers of restitution—restitution of single blessedness——" She smiled; and, deep within her breast, a faint thrill stirred her like a far premonition.