“I didn’t know it till just this moment—but it’s true.” “But—why?” She put her hand as if defensively to her bosom, to ward off a danger she had not apprehended. “Why should you love _me_?” He pondered. “I don’t know. Why do people love each other? I don’t know.” “_You love me!_” she repeated, as if it were a problem for which she were seeking the answer. “Yes,” Felix said soberly. “But then—” She did not finish her sentence, and they turned and walked again slowly back to the other corner. “That makes a difference,” she said. “I never thought of that. It was all so simple before.” “Are you sorry I—love you?” he asked. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. I don’t dare realize it. Of course I’m glad—and sorry, too—and frightened. Oh, Felix, what shall we do?” She looked at him with grave, awed eyes. “I—” Felix began, and stopped; and they resumed their walk, not touching each other.... Felix had no sense of the street upon which he walked. He was detached from everything, except the knowledge of what had happened—that little cleared space of certainties, about which was a whirling chaos in which all things fell confusedly into nothingness.... He realized that he had to adjust this thing that had happened, to all the rest of his life, to Rose-Ann, to his marriage, to his career. The sense of those things, even of Rose-Ann, came slowly; his mind was reluctant to face them. He wanted to stay here, in this cleared space in which one thing was beautifully true. But already that moment was passing. With the sense of those other things, this that had happened was no longer beautiful, but terrible—a burden, a problem.... He shook his head as if to free it from heaviness, the intolerable weight of thought. But he _must_ think.... Was it true that he cared for nothing but this moment of mad beauty? Rose-Ann, his marriage, his home, his plans, his future—was it true that these things meant nothing to him? Could he forget them all in an instant? Had a word, a phrase, shattered the whole edifice of his life? Was all this elaborate structure of plans and ambitions, this sober adjustment to the world of solid reality, a bubble that vanished at a touch? That was what he had been afraid of, that day in the hospital, when he had tried to tell Rose-Ann about himself. He had wanted to tell her what a fool he was. He had wanted to assure her that he would be such a fool no longer. And he had not had the courage. She had taken him as he was. She had exacted no promises.... Well, this was what he was like—this!