"Of this--of love, happiness, all the wonders of joy we're going to have--" "Please, do you mind not talking about those other things for a minute? Why do you tell me I can't go back, I can't go home?" "They wouldn't have you. Isn't it ridiculous--isn't it glorious?" "What, not have me _home_? They wouldn't _have_ me? Who wouldn't? There isn't a they. I've only got Robert--" "_He_ wouldn't. After that letter he couldn't. And Kökensee wouldn't and couldn't. And Glambeck wouldn't and couldn't. And Germany, if you like, wouldn't and couldn't. The whole world gives you to me. You're my mate now for ever." She watched him kissing her hand as though it did not belong to her. She was adjusting a new thought that was pushing its way like a frozen spear into her mind, trying to let it in, seeing, she could not keep it out, among all those happy thoughts so warmly there already about Ingram and her holiday and the kindness and beauty of life, without its too cruelly killing too many of them too quickly. "Do you mean--" she began; then she stopped, because what was the use of asking him what he meant? Quite suddenly she knew. An immense slow coldness, an icy fog, seemed to settle down on her and blot out happiness. All the dear accustomed things of life, the small warm things of quietness and security, the everyday things one nestled up to and knew, were sliding away from her. "So that," she heard herself saying in a funny clear voice, "there's only God?" "How, only God?" he asked, looking up at her. "Only God left who wouldn't call it adultery?" The word in her mouth shocked him. CHAPTER XXXVI