years. The house seemed to be coming to life; there were noises of opening doors, of voices outside.
"I believe you care enough," I said "to give it all up for me. I believe you do, and I want you." I continued to pace up and down. The noises of returning day grew loud; frightfully loud. It was as if I must hasten, must get said what I had to say, as if I must raise my voice to make it heard amid the clamour of a world awakening to life.
"I believe you do . . . I believe you do . . ." I said again and again, "and I want you." My voice rose higher and higher. She stood motionless, an inscrutable white figure, like some silent Greek statue, a harmony of falling folds of heavy drapery perfectly motionless.
"I want you," I said—"I want you, I want you, I want you." It was unbearable to myself.
"Oh, be quiet," she said at last. "Be quiet! If you had wanted me I have been here. It is too late. All these days; all these—"
"But . . ." I said.
From without someone opened the great shutters of the windows, and the light from the outside world burst in upon us.
[234]
