He opened the door, however, at last—­he hadn’t been away ten minutes; and then, with her sight of him renewed to intensity, she seemed to have a view of the number.  His presence alone, as he paused to look at her, somehow made it the highest, and even before he had spoken she had begun to be paid in full.  With that consciousness, in fact, an extraordinary thing occurred; the assurance of her safety so making her terror drop that already, within the minute, it had been changed to concern for his own anxiety, for everything that was deep in his being and everything that was fair in his face.  So far as seeing that she was “paid” went, he might have been holding out the money-bag for her to come and take it.  But what instantly rose, for her, between the act and her acceptance was the sense that she must strike him as waiting for a confession.  This, in turn, charged her with a new horror:  if that was her proper payment she would go without money.  His acknowledgment hung there, too monstrously, at the expense of Charlotte, before whose mastery of the greater style she had just been standing dazzled.  All she now knew, accordingly, was that she should be ashamed to listen to the uttered word; all, that is, but that she might dispose of it on the spot forever.

“Isn’t she too splendid?” she simply said, offering it to explain and to finish.

“Oh, splendid!” With which he came over to her.

“That’s our help, you see,” she added—­to point further her moral.

It kept him before her therefore, taking in—­or trying to—­what she so wonderfully gave.  He tried, too clearly, to please her—­to meet her in her own way; but with the result only that, close to her, her face kept before him, his hands holding her shoulders, his whole act enclosing her, he presently echoed:  “‘See’?  I see nothing but you.”  And the truth of it had, with this force, after a moment, so strangely lighted his eyes that, as for pity and dread of them, she buried her own in his breast.