“Don’t let your feelings blind you to reason, Tom. Our feelings. You don’t want a wife. If I was rich—or you were—even then, would you want a wife? You want me. I you. Without alloy, dear. I’ll marry King.”
She smiled brightly.
“Do you know why I put it off? Because I thought it might mean real captivity. It must have, Tom—without you, there, to rescue me. Oh,” her face darkened, “I could not stand the thought of him without the antidote!” She was silent, brooding. Her eyes seemed full of the picture of her life with the dull rich man. It stifled her, blinded.
“I could not have stood it, Tom. I can now! Without you, it must have meant prison. Now, it means release—adventure. Yes!” She seemed to be emphasizing her resolve—bringing it clear before her eyes to see it. “You’ll see that I am game. I am almost happy.”
She sank down in her chair, and smiled at him; tears kept her from seeing how he smiled a bit wistfully away.
She needed to be silent. If for no other reason, for the tears.
She wanted to ask him simply: “Do you love me, Tom? For Tom, if you did love me....” She did not dare her question. She did not dare, even in her silence, to conclude it. She was afraid of his answer. Both for him and for her she was afraid. Both of his “yes” and his “no.” After all, her mind faded and veered, she had better marry King. It would be going on.
She was dry-eyed.
Tom took her hand and kissed it.
“What do I really mean by all these things I do?” When Tom was alone his question came often, came without answer. When he was with David, it hurt and these things he did were like ash in his mouth. But even the hurt was better than the reverberating silence. So Tom fled solitude.