“Oh, things will come all right if you’ll be patient,” he said—and halted himself for the trite optimism.
“Elice won’t; for she’s gone already while I’ve been patient—gone and left me hungry.”
“Nonsense. Rot, plain rot!”
“No, reality, plain reality. She probably wouldn’t admit it yet, not even to herself, maybe doesn’t know it yet herself; but I know. It’s been coming on a long time. I see it all now.”
Randall made a wry face. That was all.
“Yes, it’s true, Harry, God’s truth. I asked you a peculiar question a while ago,—asked whether I ought to marry. I didn’t mean it; I was just maudlin. I know without asking that I mustn’t. Even if Elice would consent—and I think she would consent yet, she’s game—I mustn’t. I’m waking up more all the time.”
“Steve, you’re maddening—impossible. I 139 tell you, Elice will never change. You know it without my telling you.”
“Yes, I know. It’s I who have changed.” He remembered suddenly. “Yes; it’s I who have changed,” he repeated slowly.
“Well, you’ll change back again then.” The effort to be severe and commonplace was becoming cumulatively difficult. “You must.”
“Must change back—and marry Elice?”