“It was a foolish theory,” she said, “and—­now—­I can’t understand it at all.  I am amazed to find that it even holds good with you.”

It was so much in the tone of their usual discussions that Arnold was conscious of a lively relief.  The instinct of flight died down in him, he looked at her with something like inquiry.

“It will always be to me curious,” she went on, “that you could have thought your part in me so limited, so poor.  That is enough to say.  I find it hard to understand, anybody would, that you could take so much pleasure in me and not—­so much more.”  She opened her lips again, but kept back the words.  “Yes,” she added, “that is enough to say.”

But for her colourless face and the tenseness about her lips it might have been thought that she definitely abandoned what she had learned she could not have.  There was a note of acquiescence and regret in her voice, of calm reason above all; and this sense reached him, induced him to listen, as he generally listened, for anything she might find that would explain the situation.  His fingers went from habit, as a man might play with his watch-chain, to the symbol of his faith; her eyes followed them, and rested mutely on the cross.  There was a profundity of feeling in them, wistful, acknowledging, deeply speculative.  “You could not forget that?” she said, and shook her head as if she answered herself.  He looked into her upturned face and saw that her eyes were swimming.

“Never!” he said, “Never,” but he walked to the nearest chair and sat down.  He seemed suddenly aware that he need not go away, and his head, as it rose in the twilight against the window, was grave and calm.  Without a word a great tenderness filled the space between them; an interpreting compassion went to and fro.  Suddenly a new light dawned in Hilda’s eyes; she leaned forward and met his in an absorption which caught them out of themselves into some space where souls wander, and perhaps embrace.  The moment died away, neither of them could have measured it, and when it had finally ebbed—­they were conscious of every subsiding throb—­a silence came instead, like a margin for the beauty of it.  After a time the woman spoke.  “Once before,” she began, but he put up his hand and she stopped.  Then, as if she would no longer be restrained, “That is all I want,” she whispered.  “That is enough.”

For a time they said very little, looking back upon their divine moment; the shadows gathered in the corners of the room and made quiet conversation which was almost audible in the pauses.  Then Hilda began to speak, steadily, calmly.  You, too, would have forgotten her folly in what she found to say, as Arnold did; you, too, would have drawn faith and courage from her face.  One would not be irreverent, but if this woman were convicted of the unforgivable sin she could explain it and obtain justification rather than pardon.

“Then I may stay?” she said at the end.