She sat staring in front of her; her voice sank to a whisper. “No,” she said. “It—it isn’t.”
“And does he know that?” asked Thyrsis.
“He knows everything,” she replied. “I don’t need to tell him things.”
“But have you talked about it with him?”
“A little,” she said. “That is, you see, I had to explain to him—to apologize for what I had done in the hospital. I wanted him to know that I wouldn’t have said anything to him, if I hadn’t been so very ill.”
“I see,” said Thyrsis.
“And I want you to understand,” added Corydon, quickly-“you must not blame him. For he’s the soul of honor, Thyrsis; and he can’t help how he feels about me-any more than I can help it. You must know that, dear!”
“Yes, I know that.”
“He’s been so good and so noble about it. He thinks so much of you, Thyrsis—he wouldn’t do you wrong, not by a single word. He said that to me—-over and over again. He’s frightened, you know, that either of us might do wrong. He’s so sensitive-I think he takes things more seriously than anybody we’ve ever known.”
“I understand,” said Thyrsis; and then, after a pause, he inquired, “But what’s to come of it?”