THE WINGS OF THE DOVE
His honour, at the same time, let us add, fortunately fell short, to-night, of spoiling his little talk with Susan Shepherd. One glimpse—it was as if she had wished to give him that; and it was as if, for himself, on current terms, he could oblige. She not only permitted, she fairly invited him to open his eyes. "I'm so glad you're here." It was no answer to his question, but it had, for the moment, to do. And the rest was fully to come.
He smiled at her, and he presently found himself, as a kind of consequence of communion with her, talking her own language. "It's a very wonderful experience."
"Well"—and her raised face shone up at him—"that's all I want you to feel about it. If I weren't afraid," she added, "there are things I should like to say to you."
"And what are you afraid of, please?" he encouragingly asked.
"Of other things that I may possibly spoil. Besides, I don't, you know, seem to have the chance. You're always, you know, with her."
He was strangely supported, it struck him, in his fixed smile; which was the more fixed as he felt in these last words an exact description of his course. It was an odd thing to have come to, but he was always with her. "Ah," he none the less smiled, "I'm not with her now."
"No—and I'm so glad, since I get this from it. She's ever so much better."
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