"You're right," he said. "I was sure then it was myself, in spite of Howells's movement. It followed so neatly on the handkerchief and the footmarks. But now he has come back, and it changes everything. So I can tell you."
He couldn't be sure whether it was the cold, white loneliness through which they paced, or what he had just said that made her tremble.
"Perhaps I shouldn't have told you that."
"I am glad," she answered. "You must never close your confidence to me again. Why have you done it these last few months? I want to know."
Calculation died.
"Then you shall know."
Through the white night his hands reached for her, found her, drew her close. The moment was too masterful for him to mould. He became, instead, plastic in its white and stealthy grasp.
"I couldn't stay," he said, "and see you give yourself to Hartley."
She raised her hands to his shoulders. He barely caught her whisper because of the sly communicativeness of the snow.
"I am glad, but why didn't you say so then?"