“Are you in love, and—are things going wrong? Perhaps I can’t help you really, but at any rate I can sympathize.”
“Yes,” she answered, still looking at him. He had never realized fully the beauty of her face, softened now from its wonted passivity, or the deep splendor of her eyes. “I do love, so I can understand.”
“I’m so sorry,” he said, angry with himself at the downright incompetency of his words.
“You needn’t be. I didn’t know how incomplete my life was until—I loved. It’s made me happy. Doesn’t it help you, too? Even though it must be hopeless?”
“Yes, it’s strange; I didn’t know until last night that I really did love anyone. When I said good-by to her—at the theater—I walked home, and I sat alone by my fire and thought. A lot of things I hadn’t understood came clear, and now—I hardly think I’m the same man I was yesterday. But—I know myself too well; I shall soon drift back to what I was. If she loved me—it would be different. Now, don’t talk any more about myself. Tell me—can I help you in any way?”
“Yes, you can.”
“How? I’m so glad. You’re such a thundering good sort that—I’d give a great deal to be able to do you a good turn. What a fool the fellow must be!”
“You can help me a great deal, by helping me to honor and respect the man—I love.”
“Why,” he asked, puzzled and surprised, “how can I do that?”
“By remembering what I’ve said about not lowering yourself.”