He smiled then. He was making it out to be a wretched case of duty—and of course no one ought to marry for duty. Actually it was not altogether a case of duty. Actually he was alone in a new sea of conflicting passions, lost ideals, and hopelessness,—and he was afraid of his own loneliness. Indeed, the picture of Marie sitting there came to him as a light shining through the darkness. He no longer loved her. True. But he felt that in her he could find some salvation from the horrible destiny which immediately confronted him, and a relief from his present wretchedness.
“Marie,” he said suddenly. “You know that I have loved you!”
“Yes. You have said so. I believe it.”
“Last night there came into my life something which you could not understand—which I cannot explain now—which some day I hope to forget.”
She looked up at him, anxiously, as though fearing unknown things.
“Ah, don’t look at me that way. Let the past take care of the past. You shall know some day. I will tell you.”
“Why don’t you tell me now?”
“Because you would not understand—you would not appreciate—nor could I tell it as it is.”
“You only arouse my worst fears by talking this way,” she said. “I came to you as a friend, for consolation. I came in order to forget that horrible room. I wanted your companionship—perhaps for always. But you have only succeeded in making me more disturbed. I do not understand you.”
He went over to her chair, and sat down beside her, and put his arm around her.