"I didn't," replied Harry.
"No, dear, excuse me, of course you didn't. Only I have to make a fool of myself every now and then...."
"But, oh, my dearest," she whispered presently with another change of mood, "if you knew what a time I've been through, really, since you've been gone! If you knew how I've lain awake at night fearing that it wouldn't turn out all right, that something would happen, that I'd lose you after all! I've scanned the lists of arrivals and departures in the papers; I've listened till I thought my ears would crack when other people talked about you. The very sound of your name was enough to make me weep with delight, like that frump of a girl in the poem, when you gave her a smile.... You see, I haven't been brave all the time. There were moments.... Do you know that backbone feeling?"
"I think so," said Harry. "You mean the one that starts very suddenly at the back of your neck and shoots all the way down?"
"Yes, and at the same time you feel as if your stomach and lungs had changed places, though that's not so important. I don't see why people talk about loving with their hearts; the real feeling is always in the spine. Well, no amount of bravery could keep that from taking me by surprise sometimes, and even when I was brave it would often leave me with a suspicion that I had been very silly and weak to trust to luck to bring everything to a happy ending. But I never could bring myself to send word to you. I was determined to give you every chance of changing your mind; I knew you would come back at last, if you cared enough.... And if anything had happened, or if you had decided not to come back—well, I always had something to fall back on. The memory of that one evening, and the thought that I had been given the chance of loving you and had lived up to my love to the best of my ability...."
"That doesn't seem very much now, does it?" suggested Harry.
"No. Oh, to think how it's come out—beyond all my wildest dreams!... I never thought it would be quite as nice as this, did you?"
"Never. The truth has really done itself proud, for once."
"The truth—fancy, this is the truth! This!... Oh, nonsense, it can't be! We aren't really here, you know. This is simply an unusually vivid subconscious affair—you know—the kind that generally follows one of the backbone attacks. It will pass off presently. It will, you know, even if it is what we call reality.... For the life of me, I don't really know whether it is or not!—Harry, did it ever occur to you that people are always marveling that dreams are so like life without ever considering the converse—that life is really very much like a dream?"