“I thought,” she said, “after your so plainly-speaking silence, that you would understand, without inflicting this upon us both.” Then, she smiled. There was no rancor. But she could not keep her hurt from speaking. “Dear, poor, Quincy,” she went on, almost as if he had been the messenger of the dead boy, her lover, “don’t you see, that after what you have done, after what you have failed to do, the one thing left that will not be altogether horrible, is to have an end? There are times in life, boy, when an end is the one salvation.” She smiled again, as if at her idea. “Of course, the final one of these times is death. But we have had no difficulty, have we, to put an end to this--without that?” Quincy shuddered. He wished to ask her if she loved him, had ever loved him. But he could say nothing. She went on: “I idealized you, Quincy. I do not regret it. As long as I dared hope--as long, that is, as I could keep from seeing you as you really are, I was so happy! I needed you. You were kind--for a little while. And then, you, also, could not bear my kindness. So it was, was it not? That was the reason why you stayed away? Well--there are women like me, whose kindness is unbearable. I often think--it is a little game of mine that brings me solace--that men who yearn have a better chance. The poet can create a universe to serve. This is wide enough to stem his aching. But a woman--all she can have is a mate and a child, to cover up her wound. Her intensity is equal to the poet’s. I am sure of that. But what she has is not equal to what he has. That is unfair, is it not?” Quincy was hushed before the spectacle of his loss. Why could he not still throw himself at her feet? Did his unworthiness at length shame him from even hoping? How rich and full was this living beauty before the bloodless, craven things in his mind--ideals, conscience, aspirations--for which he had cast her out! Again, respecting his silence, she spoke to him: “There is one thing, Quincy, I still hope for. One thing I am still so humble as to ask of you. You remember what I once said to you:--that what I needed was the feeling that I would live on, in some way, in your own life. Quincy dear, do not let that part of me that stays in you turn bitter! Keep it pure, dear boy. Let it make you happy, once in a while. Cherish it! Oh, I beg this of you!” She stopped and her hands clenched before her. “I ask this, not selfishly. I know you so well! If you can keep this part of me happy and clean within you, it may save you some day. I know that--and I fear, I fear what may come, if you do not.” Now tears were there, glistening down her cheeks. She seemed to be waiting for his promise--waiting for him to give her the hope she had been humble enough to ask. But Quincy stood there silent; full of, and measuring, his loss. And as her glance sought out his eyes, it came back from them, unrefreshed and undiminished.