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"
There was silence in the room for some time.
"Yes," she said, "it is so."
"There is between us," he said, "all these years of intimacy. I feel
naked enough before you. Do you understand?"
"I think so," she answered.
"And you love me?"
She laughed.
"Don't be bitter," he pleaded.
She looked at him and was sorry for him; his eyes were dark with
torture. She was sorry for him; it was worse for him to have this
deflated love than for herself, who could never be properly mated. He
was restless, for ever urging forward and trying to find a way out. He
might do as he liked, and have what he liked of her.
"Nay," she said softly, "I am not bitter."
She felt she could bear anything for him; she would suffer for him. She
put her hand on his knee as he leaned forward in his chair. He took
it and kissed it; but it hurt to do so. He felt he was putting himself
aside. He sat there sacrificed to her purity, which felt more like
nullity. How could he kiss her hand passionately, when it would drive
her away, and leave nothing but pain? Yet slowly he drew her to him and
kissed her.


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