pain he knew his own; in her
self he saw and mourned his own doomed and piteous self. His head leaned
to hers and his lips sought hers, when, suddenly, a furious memory came,
and indignation suffocated him.

He thrust her violently away, holding her by the shoulders. "How dare
you! how dare you!" he cried. "You don't love me. You don't mind my
dying. How dare you torture me like this--when it's not real,--when I
was at peace."

It was like a wild, impossible dream. Their faces stared at each other;
their hands seized each other; they spoke, their voices clashing, and
shaken by strangling sobs.

"How dare you say that to me! You have broken my heart! You haven't
cared for years--for years!" Kitty cried. "I've longed--longed. It is
too horrible. How dare you come and tell me that you are going to die
and that it will make me a little sad. Oh! I love you--and you are
horrible to me."

"You are lying, Kitty--you are lying!"

"That too! You can say that! To me! To me!"

"It's true. You know you lie. I haven't loved you as I did. But I've
cared--good God! I see now how much.--It is you who have ceased to
care."

At these words Kitty was transfigured. Joy, joy unmistakable, flamed up
in her. It mounted to her eyes and lips, revivifying her ravaged face,
beaming forth, inundating him, unfaltering, assured, absolute.
"Darling--darling--you love me? you do love me?--Oh, you shan't die--I
won't let you die. My love will keep you with me. We will forget all
these years when we haven't understood--when we've forgotten. We will
forget everything--except that we love each other and that that is all
there is to live for in the world."

"And--Sir Walter?--" he said, simply and helplessly.

Kitty's arms were about his neck, her transfigured face was upturned to
him. Worshipped by those eyes, held in that embrace, his words, in his
own ears, were absurd. Yet he hadn't been dreaming yesterday. Kitty
might make the words seem absurd; but even Kitty's eyes and Kitty's arms
could not conjure away the facts of the sunlit summer-house, the tears,
the parting kiss. What of Sir Walter? What else was there left to say?

But after he had said them, and stood looking at her, it was as if his
words released the last depths of her rapture. She did not flush or
falter or show, even, any shock or surprise. Her arms about him, her
eyes on his, it was a stiller, a more solemn joy that dwelt on him and
enfolded him.

"You know?" she said.