“I know! I know! I did understand you!”
She said, lower, after a little while,—
“I knew you did not love her.”
“There is no such thing as love in real life,” he said, in his steeled voice. “You will know that, when you grow older. I used to believe in it once, myself.”
She did not speak, only watched the slow motion of his lips, not looking into his eyes,—as she used to do in the old time. Whatever secret account lay between the souls of this man and woman came out now, and stood bare on their faces.
“I used to think that I, too, loved,” he went on, in his low, hard tone. “But it kept me back, Margaret, and”—
He was silent.
“I know, Stephen. It kept you back”—
“And I put it away. I put it away to-night, forever.”
She did not speak; stood quite quiet, her head bent on her breast. His conscience was quite clear now. But he almost wished he had not said it, she was such a weak, sickly thing. She sat down at last, burying her face in her hands, with a shivering sob. He dared not trust himself to speak again.