"No. Half the time I'm doing it I don't believe it'll come off.... But it always does. Every time it's the same. Every time; exactly as if something had happened." "Poor Mary." "But, Richard, it makes you absolutely happy. That's the queer part of it. It's how you know." "Know _what_?" He was angry. "That there's something there. That it's absolutely real." "Real?" "Why not? If it makes you happy without the thing you care most for in the whole world.... There must be something there. It must be real. Real in a way that nothing else is." "You aren't happy now," he said. "No. And you're with me. And I care for you more than anything in the whole world." "I thought you said that was all over." "No. It's only just begun." "I can't say I see it." "You'll see it all right soon.... When you've gone." V. It was no use not marrying him, no use sending him away, as long as he was tied to you by his want. You had no business to be happy. It wasn't fair. There was he, tied to you tighter than if you _had_ married him. And there you were in your inconceivable freedom. Supposing you could give him the same freedom, the same happiness? Supposing you could "work" it for him, make It (whatever it was) reach out and draw him into your immunity, your peace? VI. Whatever It was It was there. You could doubt away yourself and Richard, but you couldn't doubt away It. It might leave you for a time, but it came back. It came back. Its going only intensified the wonder of its return. You might lose all sense of it between its moments; but the thing was certain while it lasted. Doubt it away, and still what had been done for you lasted. Done for you once for all, two years ago. And that wasn't the first time. Even supposing you could doubt away the other times.--You might have made the other things happen by yourself. But not that. Not giving Richard up and still being happy. That was something you couldn't possibly have done yourself. Or you might have done it in time--time might have done it for you--but not like that, all at once, making that incredible, supernatural happiness and peace out of nothing at all, in one night, and going on in it, without Richard. Richard himself didn't believe it was possible. He simply thought it hadn't happened. Still, even then, you might have said it didn't count so long as it was nothing but your private adventure; but not now, never again now when it had happened to Richard. His letter didn't tell you whether he thought there was anything in it. He saw the "queerness" of it and left it there: "Something happened that night after you'd gone. You know how I felt. I couldn't stop wanting you. My mind was tied to you and couldn't get away. Well--that night something let go--quite suddenly. Something went. "It's a year ago and it hasn't come back. "I didn't know what on earth you meant by 'not wanting and still caring'; but I think I see now. I don't 'want' you any more and I 'care' more than ever....