"It's the only way you learn," he answered. "There's a new note in your voice, Marjory. Have--you been learning?" His meaning was clear. He leaned forward as if trying to pierce the darkness between them. His thin white hands were tight upon the chair arms. "At least, I've been making mistakes," she answered uneasily. She felt, for a second, as if she could pour out her troubles to him--as if he would listen patiently and give her of his wisdom and strength. It would be easier--she was ashamed of the thought, but it held true--because he could not see. Almost--she could tell him of herself and of Monte. "There's such a beautiful woman in you!" he explained passionately. With her heart beating fast, she dropped back in her chair. There was the old ring in his voice--the old masterful decision that used to frighten her. There used to be moments when she was afraid that he might command her to come with him as with authority, and that she would go. "I 've always known that you'd learn some day all the fine things that are in you--all the fine things that lay ahead of you to do as a woman," he ran on. "You've only been waiting; that's all." He could not see her cheeks--she was thankful for that. But the wonder was that he did not hear the pounding of her heart. He spoke like this, not knowing of this last week. "You remember all the things I said to you--before you left?" "Yes." "I can't say them to you now. I must wait until I get my eyes back. Then I shall say them again, and perhaps--" "Do you think I 'd let you wait for your eyes?" she cried. "You mean that now--" "No, no, Peter," she interrupted, in a panic. "I did n't mean I could listen now. Only I did n't want you to think I was so selfish that if it were possible to share the light with you I--I would n't share the dark too." "There would n't be any dark for me at all if you shared it," he answered gently. Then she saw his lips tighten. "We must n't talk of that," he said. "We must n't think of it." Yet, of all the many things they discussed this morning, nothing left Marjory more to think about. It seemed that, so far, her freedom had done nothing but harm. She had intended no harm. She had desired only to lead her own life day by day, quite by herself. So she had fled from Peter--with this result; then she had fled from Teddy, who had lost his head completely; finally she had fled, not from Monte but with him, because that seemed quite the safest thing to do. It had proved the most dangerous of all! If she had driven Peter blind, Monte--if he only knew it--had brought him sweet revenge, because he had made her, not blind, but something that was worse, a thousand times worse!