He
meant that she should never know what things had happened to him in
Howland Street. His chivalry revolted against the brutality of
capturing her tender heart by such a lacerating haul on its
compassion.
All this swept through him between the falling of her ears. Last of
all came the thought of what he was giving up. Was it possible that
she cared for him?
It could not be. The illusion lasted only for an instant. Yet while it
lasted the insane longing seized him to take her at her word and risk
the consequences. For she would find out afterwards that she had never
loved him; and she would disguise her feeling and he would see through
her disguise. He would know. There could never be any disguise, any
illusion between her and him. But at least he could take her in his
arms and hold her now, while her tears fell; she would be his for this
moment that was now.
He searched her face to see if indeed there had been any illusion.
Through the tears that veiled her eyes he could not see whether it
were love or pity that still shone in them; but because of the tears
he thought it must be pity.
She went on. "You said I had taken the best years of your life--I
would like to give you all mine, instead, such as it is--if you'll
take it."
She said it quietly, so quietly that he thought that she had spoken so
only because she did not love him.
"How can I take it--now, in this way?"
(Her tears stopped falling suddenly.
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