"Did you miss me?" she said.
"Miss you! My God, Honora, how can you ask? When I look back upon these last months, I don't see how I ever passed through them. And you are changed," he said. "I could not have believed it possible, but you are. You are—you are finer."
He had chosen his word exquisitely. And then, as they trotted sedately through Madison Avenue, he strained her in his arms and kissed her.
"Oh, Hugh!" she cried, scarlet, as she disengaged, herself, "you mustn't —here!"
"You're free!" he exclaimed. "You're mine at last! I can't believe it!
Look at me, and tell me so."
She tried.
"Yes," she faltered.
"Yes—what?"
"Yes. I—I am yours."
She looked out of the window to avoid those eyes. Was this New York, or Jerusalem? Were these the streets through which she had driven and trod in her former life? Her whole soul cried out denial. No episode, no accusing reminiscences stood out—not one: the very corners were changed. Would it all change back again if he were to lessen the insistent pressure on the hand in her lap.