"I have wondered if you have thought so," a pause, "too!"
Their hearts were beating too fast for thoughts to come coherently. The fever of madness was upon them, and numbed their wills so that they could not reach beneath the surface of their consciousnesses to find words for their emotions. Then also there was in each a deadening, flaming sense of guilt. Shame is a dumb passion, and these two, who in the fastnesses of a thousand nights had told themselves that what they sought was good and holy, now found in each other's actual presence a gripping at the tongue's root that held them dumb.
"Yes, I—" the man mumbled, "yes, I—I fancied you understood that well enough."
"But you have been busy?" she asked; "very busy, Bob, and oh, I've been so proud of all that you've done." It was the woman's tongue that first found a sincere word.
The man replied, "Well—I—I am glad you have."
It seemed to the woman a long time since her father had gone. Her conscience was making minutes out of seconds. She said, "Don't you think it's getting late?" but did not rise.
The man looked at his watch and answered, "Only 10.34." He started to rise, but she checked him breathlessly.
"Oh, Bob, Bob, sit down. This isn't enough for these long years. I had so many things to say to you." She hesitated and cried, "Why are we so stupid now—now when every second counts?"
He bent slightly toward her and said in a low voice, "So that's why your lilacs have never bloomed again."
She looked at her chair arm and asked, "Did you know they hadn't bloomed?"