She did not misconstrue what he had
said under privilege of a jest, but after what had once passed between
them she had not considered that love, even in the abstract, might serve
as a mocking text for any humour or jesting sermon from a man who had
asked her what he once asked--the man she had loved enough to weep for
when she had refused him only because she lacked what he asked for.
Knowing that she loved him in her own innocent fashion, scarcely
credulous that he ever could be dearer to her, yet shyly wistful for
whatever more the years might add to her knowledge of a love so far
immune from stress or doubt or the mounting thrill of a deeper emotion,
she had remained confidently passive, warmly loyal, reverencing the
mystery of the love he offered, though she could not understand it or
respond.
And now--now a chance turn; of a word--a trend to an idle train of
thought, jestingly followed!--and, without warning, they had stumbled on
a treasured memory, too frail, too delicately fragile, to endure the
shock.
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