"I tell you that, to me, life itself—the reality of the living world—depends on you. If you die, all dies. Without you there is nothing—absolutely nothing!—Not even myself!"
Calm, passionless, clear, her voice serenely pronounced and emphasized her childish creed. And, impatient, restless, disturbed at first, yet in this young girl's exaggerated and obstinate devotion he found no reason for mirth, no occasion for the suppressed amusement of experience.
He said:
"I can try to be what you think me, Philippa. Yours is a very tender heart, and noble. Perhaps your heart may gradually lend me a little of its own quality, so that the glamour with which you invest me shall not be all unreal."
There was a short silence, then Philippa laughed. It was a sweet, happy, confused little laugh. She made an effort to explain it.
"The greatest thing in the world," she said—"the only thing!"
"What, Philippa?"
"Our friendship."
It was still early evening as they entered the house together and traversed the hall to the north terrace.
The Countess de Moidrey, a book on her lap, was seated by a lighted lamp in the billiard room, gazing out of the open windows, through which the thunder of the cannonade, wave after wave, came rolling in from the north.