walk so fast down this side street?—made her more and more conscious of a person of marked, though disagreeable, force by her side. She stopped and, looking round her for a cab, sighted one in the distance. He was thus precipitated into speech.
“Should you mind if we walked a little farther?” he asked. “There’s something I want to say to you.”
“Very well,” she replied, guessing that his request had something to do with Mary Datchet.
“It’s quieter by the river,” he said, and instantly he crossed over. “I want to ask you merely this,” he began. But he paused so long that she could see his head against the sky; the slope of his thin cheek and his large, strong nose were clearly marked against it. While he paused, words that were quite different from those he intended to use presented themselves.
“I’ve made you my standard ever since I saw you. I’ve dreamt about you; I’ve thought of nothing but you; you represent to me the only reality in the world.”
His words, and the queer strained voice in which he spoke them, made it appear as if he addressed some person who was not the woman beside him, but some one far away.
“And now things have come to such a pass that, unless I can speak to you openly, I believe I shall go mad. I think of you as the most beautiful, the truest thing in the world,” he continued, filled with a sense of exaltation, and feeling that he had no need now to choose his words with pedantic accuracy, for what he wanted to say was suddenly become plain to him.
“I see you everywhere, in the stars, in the river, to me you're everything that exists; the reality of everything. Life, I tell you, would be impossible without you. And now I want———”
She had heard him so far with a feeling that she had dropped some material word which made sense of the rest.
