"Why do you care for my friendship, Langly? I am not the kind of woman you think me—not even the kind I once thought myself. To me friendship is no light thing either to ask for or to give. It means more to me than it once did; and I give it very seldom, and sparingly, and to very, very few. But toward everybody I am gently disposed—because, I am much happier than I ever have been in all my life.... Is not my good will sufficient for any possible relation between you and me?"
"Then you are no longer angry with me?"
"No—no longer angry."
"Can we be friends again? Can you really forgive me, Strelsa?"
"Why—yes, I could do that.... But, Langly, what have you and I in common as a basis for friendship? What have we ever had in common? Except when we encounter each other by hazard, why should we ever meet at all?"
"You have not pardoned me, Strelsa," he said patiently.
"Does that really make any difference to you? It doesn't to me. It is only because I never think of you that it would be an effort to forgive you. I'll make that effort if you wish, but really, Langly, I never think about you at all."
"If that is true, let me be with you sometimes, Strelsa," he said in a low voice.
"Because I am wretchedly unhappy. And I care for you—more than you realise."