"But you and I--just you and I, together, thinking the way we both do, seeing what we both see--the splendid sadness and the glory of living and loving--and being what we both are! Oh, it all comes back to me, I tell you; and I say I have not changed. I shall always call your hair 'dark as the night of disunion and separation'--isn't that what the oriental poet called it?--and your face, to me, always, always, always, will be 'fair as the days of union and delight.' No you've not changed. You're still just a tall flower, in the blades of grass--that are cut down. But wasted! What is in my mind now, when maybe it ought not to be here, is just this: What couldn't you and I have done together? Ah! Nothing could have stopped us!" "What could we not have done?" she repeated slowly. "I've done so little--in the world--alone." Something in her tone caught his ear, his senses, overstrung, vibrating in exquisite susceptibility, capable almost of hearing thought that dared not be thought. He turned his blackened face, bent toward her, looking into her face with an intensity which almost annihilated the human limitations of flesh and blood. It was as though his soul heard something in hers, and turned to answer it, to demand its repetition. "Did you say, _could_ have done?" he demanded. "Tell me, did you say that?" She did not answer, and he went on. "Listen!" he said in his old, imperious way. "What couldn't we do together an the world, for the world--even now?" For a long time there was silence. At last, a light hand fell upon the brown and blistered one which he had thrust out. "Do you think so?" he heard a gentle voice reply.