“Wait,” said I, “we will go on with our work, at least—in the morning.”
She pursed her lips again. “I don't know,” she replied, as if she were thinking aloud, “whether that is possible.”
“It must be possible!”
She shook her head. “You will have to let me think about that.”
Then she closed the door, and was gone.
I had meant to give her my life. I had only succeeded in taking away from her that part of it that had been helpful to her.
I find it difficult to reconstruct the hour that followed. I remember standing a long while by the window. Once I went to her door, just so that I might hear her moving about her room. But as I stood there it seemed like an intrusion, and I came away.
Many, many things that I might have said to her came rushing to my thoughts. I wanted to say them now. I wanted to go right into her room and say them.
All the time my heart was beating very rapidly, and my blood was hot. Love, it seems, is like a fever. I never knew this before. I have always thought it a weakness when I have seen what men call love apparently devastating a life. Now I see that I must correct this judgment. For love is a force that operates beyond the jurisdiction of reason or will. I begin to think that I must expect less assistance from my own reason than heretofore.
That long, wild hour of my solitude somehow passed. It occurred to me to go outdoors. I picked up my hat and stick. Then, irresolute, I moved to the window and looked out over the city.