"Yes--if I try."
"But you will try, won't you?" she demanded mockingly.
He said, forcing a smile: "You seem to think it impossible that I
could win you."
"Oh," she said airily, "I don't say that. You see I don't know the
method of procedure. I don't know what you're going to do about your
falling in love with me."
He leaned over and took her by the waist; and she drew back
instinctively, surprised and disconcerted.
"That is silly," she said. "Are you going to be silly with me, Clive?"
"No," he said, "I won't be that."
He sat looking at her in silence for a few moments. And slowly the
belief entered his heart like a slim steel blade that she had never
loved, and that there was in her nothing except what she had said
there was, loyalty and devotion, unsullied and spiritual, clean of all
else lower and less noble, guiltless of passion, ignorant of desire.
As he looked at her he remembered the past--remembered that once he
might have taught her love in all its attributes--that once he might
have married her. For in a school so gentle and secure as wedlock such
a girl might learn to love.
He had had his chance. What did he want of her now, then?--more than
he had of her already. Love? Her devotion amounted to that--all of it
that could concern a man already married--hopelessly married to a
woman who would never submit to divorce. What did he want of her then?
He turned and walked to the open window and stood looking out over the
city. Sunset blazed crimson at the western end of every cross-street.
Far away on the Jersey shore electric lights began to sparkle.
He did not know she was behind him until one arm fell lightly on his
shoulder.
It remained there after her imprisoned waist yielded a little to his
arm.
"You are not unhappy, are you, Clive?"
"No."
"I didn't mean to take it lightly. I don't comprehend; that's all. It
seems to me that I can't care for you more than I do already. Do you
understand?"
"Yes, dear."
She raised one cool hand and drew his cheek gently against her own,
and rested so a moment, looking out across the misty city.
He remembered that night of his departure when she had put both arms
around his neck and kissed him. It had been like the serene touch of a
crucifix to his lips. It was like that now,--the smooth, passionless
touch of her cool, young face against his, and her slim hand framing
his cheek.