He went on more gravely: "Candour and the intuition born of common sense,--that is where you are so admirable, dear. Add to that the tenderest heart that ever beat, and a proud ignorance of the lesser, baser emotions--and, who am I to interfere,--to come into the sweet order of your life with demands that confuse you--with complaints against the very destiny I brought upon us both--with the clamour of a selfish and ignoble philosophy which your every instinct rejects, and which your heart entertains only because it _is_ your heart, and its heavenly sympathy has never failed me yet.... Oh, Athalie, Athalie, it would be a shameful day for me and a bitter day for you if my selfishness and irresolution ever swerved you. What I have lost--if I have indeed lost it--is lost irrevocably. And I've got to learn to face it." She said, still gazing absently into the darkness: "Yes. But I am just beginning to wonder what it is that _I_ may have lost,--what it is that I have never known." "Don't think of it! Don't permit anything I have said or done to trouble you or stir you toward such an awakening.... I don't want to stand charged with that. You are tranquil, now--" "I--_was_." "You are still!" he said in quick concern. "Listen, Athalie--the majority of men lose their grip at moments; men as irresolute as I lose it oftener. Don't waste sympathy on me; it was nothing but a whine born of a lesser impulse--born of emotions less decent than you could comprehend--" "Maybe I am beginning to comprehend." "You shall not! You shall remain as you are! Dear, don't you realise that I can't steady myself unless I can look up to you? You've raised yourself to where you stand; you've made your own pedestal. Look down at me from it; don't ever _step_ down; don't ever condescend; don't ever let me think you mortal. You are not, now. Don't ever descend entirely to my level--even if we marry." She turned, smiling too wisely, yet adorably: "What endless romance there is in that boy's heart of yours! There always was,--when you came running back to me where I stood alone by the closed door,--when you found me living as all women who work live, and made a beautiful home for me and gave me more than I wished to take, asking nothing of me in return. Oh, Clive, you were chivalrous and romantic, too, when you listened to your mother's wishes and gave me up. I understand it so much better, now. I know how it was--with your father dead and your beautiful mother, broken, desolate, confiding to your keeping all her hope and pride and future happiness,--all the traditions of the family, and its dignity and honour! "In the light of a clearer knowledge, do you suppose I blame you now? Do you suppose I blame you for anything?--for your long and broken-hearted and bitter silence?--for the quick resurgence of your affection for me--for your love--Oh, Clive!--for your passion?