He stood before her still--her question kept him motionless. He took it in, so much there was of it; and indeed his not otherwise meeting it testified to that. "I know at least what I am," he simply went on; "the other side of the medal's clear enough. I've not been edifying--I believe I'm thought in a hundred quarters to have been barely decent. I've followed strange paths and worshipped strange gods; it must have come to you again and again--in fact you've admitted to me as much--that I was leading, at any time these thirty years, a selfish frivolous scandalous life. And you see what it has made of me." She just waited, smiling at him. "You see what it has made of _me_." "Oh you're a person whom nothing can have altered. You were born to be what you are, anywhere, anyway: you've the perfection nothing else could have blighted. And don't you see how, without my exile, I shouldn't have been waiting till now--?" But he pulled up for the strange pang. "The great thing to see," she presently said, "seems to me to be that it has spoiled nothing. It hasn't spoiled your being here at last. It hasn't spoiled this. It hasn't spoiled your speaking--" She also however faltered. He wondered at everything her controlled emotion might mean. "Do you believe then--too dreadfully!--that I _am_ as good as I might ever have been?" "Oh no! Far from it!" With which she got up from her chair and was nearer to him. "But I don't care," she smiled. "You mean I'm good enough?" She considered a little. "Will you believe it if I say so? I mean will you let that settle your question for you?" And then as if making out in his face that he drew back from this, that he had some idea which, however absurd, he couldn't yet bargain away: "Oh you don't care either--but very differently: you don't care for anything but yourself." Spencer Brydon recognised it--it was in fact what he had absolutely professed. Yet he importantly qualified. "_He_ isn't myself. He's the just so totally other person. But I do want to see him," he added. "And I can. And I shall." Their eyes met for a minute while he guessed from something in hers that she divined his strange sense. But neither of them otherwise expressed it, and her apparent understanding, with no protesting shock, no easy derision, touched him more deeply than anything yet, constituting for his stifled perversity, on the spot, an element that was like breatheable air. What she said however was unexpected. "Well, _I've_ seen him." "You--?" "I've seen him in a dream." "Oh a 'dream'--!" It let him down. "But twice over," she continued. "I saw him as I see you now." "You've dreamed the same dream--?" "Twice over," she repeated. "The very same." This did somehow a little speak to him, as it also gratified him. "You dream about me at that rate?" "Ah about _him_!" she smiled. His eyes again sounded her. "Then you know all about him." And as she said nothing more: "What's the wretch like?"