“Yes,” she replied. “And I have been wanting to see you by yourself. I have not thanked you for your letter. But you do see that I appreciate it, don't you?”
“There is nothing to thank me for, since I pleased myself in writing it. The thanks are from me to you for treating it as you have done.”
“Oh, no,” said Clytie, shaking her head and looking before her. “You can't understand,—and perhaps it is better you shouldn't,—what a letter like that means to a woman. Well, it meant a great deal to me. To tell you so is the only return I can make you.”
“Don't let us talk of it,” said Kent. “I could not bear to have you as a friend under false pretences.”
After they had walked a few steps in silence she continued the subject.
“Don't you think it would be better for you to forget all about me, and look around for someone who can make you happy—really happy?”
“I'd have to live till the day of judgment to find her,” said Kent bluntly.
“That's ridiculous, Kent. But can't you feel that it sometimes pains me to see you sacrificing your life for me?”
“I am not sacrificing my life,” he answered cheerfully. “Besides, I don't quite see what it has got to do with you—in one sense. I love you, and I couldn't love anybody else for all the joys in creation. Thank God, you are broad-minded enough to let me tell you this without any chance of misconstruction.”
“Ah! That's all very well,” she said, with a little sigh. “If I were a saint, I might placidly accept it as my due. Being only a woman, and that none of the best, it seems such a waste of good love, Kent, and love is a rare, rare thing in the world.”