At any rate, it would be good to hear him saying the sort of things he did—perhaps now she would grasp them better—with this world-shaking secret brandishing itself about inside her head within a yard of him. She had to school herself to speak the words which she knew would cut him like a knife. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. He shrieked with agony, and clung with desperate tenacity to the roughened stones. In the bad light he looked at once military and sentimental and studious, like one of Ouida’s guardsmen revised by Mr. “Have you killed recently?” He was curious, scared. “I am going to ask for your forgiveness.
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