“That’s just it,” said she. “That’s what I couldn’t make clear to you.”
“But still, we had to find out.”
“You may have,” she said. “I didn’t.”
Thyrsis looked, and saw that she was smiling through her tears. He took her hand in his. “We’ll see each other through, dear,” he said. “We’ll have to wait until the world grows up.”
He felt an answering pressure of her hand. “Thyrsis,” she said, “you must promise me that you will never do anything dreadful like that again. You must understand me; I might think that I was in love, but it would never be real—truly it wouldn’t. No man could ever mean to me what you mean—I know that! And I couldn’t give you up—you must never let yourself think of such a thing! I couldn’t give you up!”
So there came to Thyrsis one of those bursts of tenderness that she knew so well. He put his arms about her and kissed her with fervor; but even while he spoke with her, and gave her the love she desired, there was something in him that sank back and moaned with despair. So the captive sinks and moans when he finds that his break for freedom has led only to the tightening of his chains.
They stood for the last time before the cabin, bidding farewell to the little glen and all its memories.
“There are lines in the poem for everything,” she said. “Even for that!” And she quoted—
“He hearkens not! light comer, he is flown!”
He laughed. “I can do better yet,” he said—