“It’s my fault--but why? What is it? You’d be good to me, but I want so much. I’m several people, and all asking. One of me loves you, but not all--no, not all! One of me is afraid--that’s the strongest one. There are so many closed doors. Can anybody be happy in a single room? Or are there new rooms for us to find together that I don’t know of, now, so that the closed doors wouldn’t matter? If only I knew! If only you could tell me! Suppose the one room was a prison for always? How am I to know?” He moved uneasily, and she pulled herself up and made an attempt at coherence. “Marriage isn’t just one thing to me; it’s all--love, companionship, understanding for always. How can I face closed doors through Eternity? You love me, but half I say has no meaning for you, half I feel passes you by even when we’re nearest. It isn’t your fault; it isn’t mine. You’re patient with me, but even love and patience are not enough. All the time we’re both of us groping, you for light and I for touch. You’re gentler than your father, but at the bottom you’re alike. You believe in the same things, you feel about them in the same way. You were vexed for my sake when he forced us into each other’s arms over the farm, but you didn’t feel that he caught up our dream in rough hands, and made it coarse and common. It was right and natural to you, perhaps even beautiful. Perhaps it was I who broke the glamour for _you_--I hadn’t thought of that! But I had to do it. I should do it again. What are the real things--the things that matter?” And for the second time she said: “How am I to know?” He had been standing looking away from her, but now he turned and took her gently in his arms, with one hand raising her face as if it had been a child’s. Perhaps it came to him that in her doubt and trouble she was indeed a child to his certainty of purpose. All her acquired wisdom could not give her the unclouded sureness that love had taught him long since.