“It means, first of all, that at last I’m on my feet, where I’ve always wished to be. It means that I’m to have my chance—and that again means independence.” He overlooked absolutely the egotism of the statement, was unconscious of it. Success loomed too big and incontestible; possible future failure lay too remote to merit consideration. “It means all of this; but beyond that it means that I have the right to tell you again that I love you. You know I love you, as always, Elice.”
“As always?”
“Forget, please. This is to-day; my day, our day. You don’t doubt I love you?”
“No; I don’t doubt it.”
Armstrong breathed deep. An instinct all but overwhelming impelled him to rise, to—he substituted with his eyes. 310
“You realize all that I wish to say,” he said swiftly, “so why make a farce of it by words? We’ve drifted apart for a long time, a hideously long time, and it’s been my fault throughout; but now that it’s over won’t you come back to the beginning, Elice, to the place where we separated?” He halted for breath, for words where none were adequate. “I want you, Elice, want you—now and always. Tell me, please, that you’ve forgiven me, that you’ll come back.”
In the girl’s lap the hands crossed steadily; again that was the only move she made.
“So far as I am concerned there’s nothing to forgive, nor has there ever been,” she said gently. “As for going back, though, I can’t; because I can’t. It’s useless to lie, for you’d find me out. I’ve simply awakened.”
“You mean you—don’t care for me any more?”
“No; I care for you very much; but not in that way. It was so before the end came. I awoke before that.”