"Yes, yes...."
"You said something about getting off there on a night when you left the train with a girl who was coming home to the village—you know the letter?" he broke off, "I think it was that letter that finally gave me courage to come. Because in that I saw in you something new and—understanding. Well, and I remembered about the draw. I always meant to get off there, when I came."
"You always meant ... but then how did you make them stop?"
"I told the man I had to, and then he had to, too. There were four others who got off and went across the tracks, but we are not obliged to consider them."
"From that," I said, "I would think it is you, if I didn't know it couldn't possibly be!"
Then I hurried into some recital about the Topladys, whose big barn and little house were lined faintly out as if something were making them feel hushed; and about Friendship, hidden in the valley as if it were suddenly of lesser import—how strange that these things should be there as they were an hour ago. And so we came to Oldmoxon House and went up the walk in silence save that, at the steps, "How long shall I tell them to boil your eggs?" I asked desperately, to still the quite ridiculous singing of the known world. But then the singing took one voice, a voice whose firmness made it almost hard, save that deep within it something was beating....
"You know," said the voice simply, "if I come in now, I come to stay. You do know?"
"You come to breakfast...." I tried it.
"I come to stay."
"You mean—"