worse. Why, yes, I care—yes, yes. It hurts me to see you. I might . . . It would draw me away. I have my allotted course. And you—Don't you see, you would influence me; you would be—you are—a disease—for me."
"But," I said, "I could—I would—do anything."
I had only the faintest of ideas of what I would do—for her sake.
"Ah, no," she said, "you must not say that. You don't understand . . . Even that would mean misery for you—and I—I could not bear. Don't you see? Even now, before you have done your allotted part, I am wanting—oh, wanting—to let you go . . . But I must not; I must not. You must go on . . . and bear it for a little while more—and then . . ."
There was a tension somewhere, a string somewhere that was stretched tight and vibrating. I was tremulous with an excitement that overmastered my powers of speech, that surpassed my understanding.
"Don't you see . . ." she asked again, "you are the past—the passing. We could never meet. You are . . . for me . . .
[232]
