Now you asked me if you were not my
friend? Of course you are not. How could you be?"
"It would be easier now than ever before," she said. But he shook
his head from side to side, slowly, dully, monotonously.
"No, no," he said, "it would not be right,--I would not allow it."
"I remember now," she said slowly, "how you hesitated. It must
have been agony for you. I knew there was something, all the time.
Of course, I could not tell what. But it must have been agony for
you to offer to tell me--of this."
"Oh, I might have told you then. Perhaps it would have been braver
if I had. I tried it a dozen times, but couldn't. I don't pretend
to say whether it was selfishness or cowardice, or just kindness
to--her. If I ever loved her, it was so faint and far away--but it
isn't right to say that, now."
"No. Do not. Do not."
"I don't know. There are a heap of things I don't know. But I
knew I loved you. It was for ever. That was what was meant to be.
It seemed to me I owed debts on every hand--to the world--to you: I
tried--tried to pay--to pay you fair, ache for ache, if I could,
for the hurts I'd given you.
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