Her lips were quivering.
“Oh, I trust you! But it is such a prospect. You don’t know. I can’t face it all in a moment.”
“I don’t ask you to do that. Go away, if you wish it, think it over, and decide. Don’t think of me, the man, the comrade. Think of the working life, of your art, the real life—just that.”
He made a movement towards the door, and she understood the delicacy of his self-effacement, and the fine courtesy that forefelt her sensitive desire to escape to be alone. They passed out into the garden. Canterton spoke again as he opened the gate.
“I still believe all that I believed last summer!”
He had to wait for her answer, but it came.
“I am older than I was. I have suffered a little. That refines or hardens. One does not ask for everything when one has had nothing. And yet I do not know what to say to you—the man.”
CHAPTER XLI
CAMPING IN THE FIR WOODS