CHAPTER XXX

y—Iwon’tgoon.” “Weweretheretogether?”hepressedher. “No.Iwasalone.”Sheseemedtobedisappointingthedesireofachild.Hisfacefell. “You’realwaysalonethere?” “Ican’texplain.”Shecouldnotexplainthatshewasessentiallyalonethere.“It’snotamountainintheNorthofEngland.It’sanimagination—astoryonetellsoneself.Youhaveyourstoo?” “You’rewithmeinmine.You’rethethingImakeup,yousee.” “Oh,Isee,”shesighed.“That’swhyit’ssoimpossible.”Sheturneduponhimalmostfiercely.“Youmusttrytostopit,”shesaid. “Iwon’t,”herepliedroughly,“becauseI—”Hestopped.HerealizedthatthemomenthadcometoimpartthatnewsoftheutmostimportancewhichhehadtriedtoimparttoMaryDatchet,toRodneyupontheEmbankment,tothedrunkentrampupontheseat.HowshouldheofferittoKatharine?Helookedquicklyather.Hesawthatshewasonlyhalfattentivetohimonlyasectionofherwasexposedtohim.Thesightrousedinhimsuchdesperationthathehadmuchadotocontrolhisimpulsetoriseandleavethehouse.Herhandlaylooselycurleduponthetable.Heseizeditandgraspeditfirmlyasiftomakesureofherexistenceandofhisown.“BecauseIloveyou,Katharine,”hesaid. Someroundnessorwarmthessentialtothatstatementwasabsentfromhisvoice,andshehadmerelytoshakeherheadveryslightlyforhimtodropherhandandturnawayinshameathisownimpotence.Hethoughtthatshehaddetectedhiswishtoleaveher.Shehaddiscernedthebreakinhisresolution,theblanknessintheheartofhisvision.Itwastruethathehadbeenhappieroutinthestreet,thinkingofher,thannowthathewasinthesameroomwithher.Helookedatherwithaguiltyexpressiononhisface.Butherlookexpressedneitherdisappointmentnorreproach.Herposewaseasy,andsheseemedtogiveeffecttoamoodofquietspeculationbythespinningofherrubyringuponthepolishedtable.Denhamforgothisdespairinwonderingwhatthoughtsnowoccupiedher. “Youdon’tbelieveme?”hesaid.Histonewashumble,andmadehersmileathim. “AsfarasIunderstandyou—butwhatshouldyouadvisemetodowiththisring?”sheasked,holdingitout. “Ishouldadviseyoutoletmekeepitforyou,”hereplied,inthesametoneofhalf-humorousgravity. “Afterwhatyou’vesaid,Icanhardlytrustyou—unlessyou’llunsaywhatyou’vesaid?” “Verywell.I’mnotinlovewithyou.” “ButIthinkyouareinlovewithme....AsIamwithyou,”sheaddedcasuallyenough.“Atleast,”shesaidslippingherringbacktoitsoldposition,“whatotherworddescribesthestatewe’rein?” Shelookedathimgravelyandinquiringly,asifinsearchofhelp. “It’swhenI’mwithyouthatIdoubtit,notwhenI’malone,”hestated. “SoIthought,”shereplied. Inordertoexplaintoherhisstateofmind,Ralphrecountedhisexperiencewiththephotograph,theletter,andtheflowerpickedatKew.Shelistenedveryseriously. “Andthenyouwentravingaboutthestreets,”shemused.“Well,it’sbadenough.Butmystateisworsethanyours,becauseithasn’tanythingtodowithfacts.It’sanhallucination,pureandsimple—anintoxication....Onecanbeinlovewithpurereason?”shehazarded.“Becauseifyou’reinlovewithavision,Ibelievethatthat’swhatI’minlovewith.” ThisconclusionseemedfantasticandprofoundlyunsatisfactorytoRalph,butaftertheastonishingvariationsofhisownsentimentsduringthepasthalf-hourhecouldnotaccuseheroffancifulexaggeration. “Rodneyseemstoknowhisownmindwellenough,”hesaidalmostbitterly.Themusic,whichhadceased,hadnowbegunagain,andthemelodyofMozartseemedtoexpresstheeasyandexquisiteloveofthetwoupstairs. “Cassandraneverdoubtedforamoment.Butwe—”sheglancedathimasiftoascertainhisposition,“weseeeachotheronlynowandthen—” “Likelightsinastorm—” “Inthem