There was a tension somewhere, a string somewhere that was stretched tight and vibrating. I was tremulous with an excitement that overmastered my powers of speech, that surpassed my understanding. "Don't you see ..." she asked again, "you are the past--the passing. We could never meet. You are ... for me ... only the portrait of a man--of a man who has been dead--oh, a long time; and I, for you, only a possibility ... a conception.... You work to bring me on--to make me possible." "But--" I said. The idea was so difficult to grasp. "I will--there must be a way--" "No," she answered, "there is no way--you must go back; must try. There will be Churchill and what he stands for--He won't die, he won't even care much for losing this game ... not much.... And you will have to forget me. There is no other way--no bridge. We can't meet, you and I...." The words goaded me to fury. I began to pace furiously up and down. I wanted to tell her that I would throw away everything for her, would crush myself out, would be a lifeless tool, would do anything. But I could tear no words out of the stone that seemed to surround me. "You may even tell him, if you like, what I and Gurnard are going to do. It will make no difference; he will fall. But you would like him to--to make a good fight for it, wouldn't you? That is all I can do ... for your sake." I began to speak--as if I had not spoken for years. The house seemed to be coming to life; there were noises of opening doors, of voices outside. "I believe you care enough," I said "to give it all up for me. I believe you do, and I want you." I continued to pace up and down. The noises of returning day grew loud; frightfully loud. It was as if I must hasten, must get said what I had to say, as if I must raise my voice to make it heard amid the clamour of a world awakening to life. "I believe you do ... I believe you do...." I said again and again, "and I want you." My voice rose higher and higher. She stood motionless, an inscrutable white figure, like some silent Greek statue, a harmony of falling folds of heavy drapery perfectly motionless. "I want you," I said--"I want you, I want you, I want you." It was unbearable to myself. "Oh, be quiet," she said at last. "Be quiet! If you had wanted me I have been here. It is too late. All these days; all these--" "But ..." I said. From without someone opened the great shutters of the windows, and the light from the outside world burst in upon us. CHAPTER FIFTEEN We parted in London next day, I hardly know where. She seemed so part of my being, was for me so little more than an intellectual force, so little of a physical personality, that I cannot remember where my eyes lost sight of her.