"Can you?"
She began to cry.
She had always fought hard against tears when she was with Quentin, but this afternoon her disappointment was too bitter. She realised the sour facts to which hope and trust had long blinded her—that Quentin would never win his independence, and therefore that marriage with him was impossible till his father's death. She saw how much she had unconsciously relied on Baker's acceptance of the poems, their last hope. Quentin's words had scattered a crowd of little delicate dreams, scarcely realised while she entertained them, known only as they fled like angels from the door. After those three weary years of waiting she had dreamed of being his at last—his wife, his housemate—no longer meeting him in the dark corners of woods, but his before the world, honoured and acknowledged. Now that dream was shattered—the three weary years would become four weary years, and the four, five—and on and on to six and seven. The woods would still rustle with their stealthy footsteps, their tongues still burn with lies ... she covered her face, and wept bitterly—with all the impassioned weakness of the strong.
"Oh, I'm so ashamed...."
"Why?"
"Because I'm crying. But, Quentin, I feel broken, somehow. Our love's so great, and we're parted by such little things."
"Janey, Janey...."
She sobbed more dryly now—anguish was stiffening her throat.
"Must we wait all those years?" he whispered.
"What else can we do?"