"Writing seemed so unsatisfactory, after what you had done for me, and I never can express myself in writing. I seem to congeal."
"After what I have done for you!" he exclaimed: "What can I have done?"
"You have done more than you know," she answered, in a low voice. "More, I think, than I know. How are such things to be measured, put into words? You have effected some change in me which defies analysis, a change of attitude,—to attempt to dogmatize it would ruin it. I prefer to leave it undefined—not even to call it an acquisition of faith. I have faith," she said, simply, "in what you have become, and which has made you dare, superbly, to cast everything away. . . It is that, more than anything you have said. What you are."
For the instant he lost control of himself.
"What you are," he replied. "Do you realize—can you ever realize what your faith in me has been to me?"
She appeared to ignore this.
"I did not mean to say that you have not made many things clear, which once were obscure, as I wrote you. You have convinced me that true belief, for instance, is the hardest thing in the world, the denial of practically all these people, who profess to believe, represent. The majority of them insist that humanity is not to be trusted. . ."
They had reached, in an incredibly brief time, the corner of Park Street.
"When are you leaving?" he asked, in a voice that sounded harsh in his own ears.
"Come!" she said gently, "I'm not going in yet, for a while."