It moved her stillness to a gesture--which, however, she had as promptly checked; and she went on the next instant as for further generosity to his failure of thought. “Everything was possible, under my stress, with my hatred.” “Your hatred--?” For she had paused as if it were after all too difficult. “Of what I should for so long have been doing to you.” With this, for all his failures, a greater light than any yet shone upon him. “It made you think of ways----?” “It made me think of everything. It made me work,” said Kate Cookham. She added, however, the next moment: “But that’s my story.” “And I mayn’t hear it?” “No--because I mayn’t hear yours.” “Oh, mine--!” he said with the strangest, saddest, yet after all most resigned sense of surrender of it; which he tried to make sound as if he couldn’t have told it, for its splendor of sacrifice and of misery, even if he would. It seemed to move in her a little, exactly, that sense of the invidious. “Ah, mine too, I assure you----!” He rallied at once to the interest. “Oh, we _can_ talk then?” “Never,” she all oddly replied. “Never,” said Kate Cookham. They remained so, face to face; the effect of which for him was that he had after a little understood why. That was fundamental. “Well, I see.” Thus confronted they stayed; and then, as he saw with a contentment that came up from deeper still, it was indeed she who, with her worn fine face, would conclude. “But I can take care of you.” “You _have!_” he said as with nothing left of him but a beautiful appreciative candour. “Oh, but you’ll want it now in a way--!” she responsibly answered. He waited a moment, dropping again on the seat. So, while she still stood, he looked up at her; with the sense somehow that there were too many things and that they were all together, terribly, irresistibly, doubtless blessedly, in her eyes and her whole person; which thus affected him for the moment as more than he could bear. He leaned forward, dropping his elbows to his knees and pressing his head on his hands. So he stayed, saying nothing; only, with the sense of her own sustained, renewed and wonderful action, knowing that an arm had passed round him and that he was held. She was beside him on the bench of desolation. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Finer Grain, by Henry James