THE WINGS OF THE DOVE
note of character that belittled his own incapacity for action. Yet he saw indeed even at the time the greatness of knowing so well what one wanted. At the time, too, moreover, he next reflected that he after all knew what he did. But something else, on his lips, was uppermost. "What I don't make out then is how you can even bear it."
"Well, when you know me better you'll find out how much I can bear." And she went on before he could take up, as it were, her too many implications. That it was left to him to know her, spiritually, "better" after his long sacrifice to knowledge—this, for instance, was a truth he hadn't been ready to receive so full in the face. She had mystified him enough, heaven knew, but that was rather by his own generosity than by hers. And what, with it, did she seem to suggest she might incur at his hands? In spite of these questions she was carrying him on. "All you'll have to do will be to stay."
"And proceed to my business under your eyes?"
"Oh dear, no—we shall go."
"Go?" he wondered. "Go when, go where?"
"In a day or two—straight home. Aunt Maud wishes it now."
It gave him all he could take in to think of. "Then what becomes of Miss Theale?"
"What I tell you. She stays on, and you stay with her."
He stared. "All alone?"
She had a smile that was apparently for his tone.
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