“I tell you, if she does go back to him, it’ll never be the same between them!”
“Oh, Cora, I wouldn’t say that,” the other ineffectually wailed; then they moved toward the door, and a moment later it had closed on them.
Amherst turned to his wife with outstretched arms. “Say you forgive me, Justine!”
She held back a little from his entreating hands, not reproachfully, but as if with a last scruple for himself.
“There’s nothing left. . . of the horror?” she asked below her breath.
“To be without you that’s the only horror!”
“You’re sure———?”
“Sure!”
“It’s just the same to you. . . just as it was. . . before?”
“Just the same, Justine!”
“It’s not for myself, but you.”
“Then, for me—never speak of it!” he implored.
“Because it’s not the same, then?” leapt from her.
“Because it’s wiped out—because it’s never been!”
“Never?”
“Never!”
He felt her yield to him at that, and under his eyes, close under his lips, was her face at last. But as they kissed they heard the handle of the door turn, and drew apart quickly, her hand lingering in his under the fold of her dress.
[ 618 ]
