THE WINGS OF THE DOVE
"Yes," he at last returned, "I know. But the marvel to me is that you do. I've no right in fact to imagine, or to assume, that you do."
"You may," said Susan Shepherd, "all the same. I know."
"Everything?"
Her eyes, through her veil, kept pressing him. "No—not everything. That's why I've come."
"That I shall really tell you?" With which, as she hesitated, and it affected him, he brought out, in a groan, a doubting "Oh, oh!" It turned him from her to the place itself, which was a part of what was in him, was the abode, the worn shrine more than ever, of the fact in possession, the fact, now an association, for which he had hired it. That was not for telling, but Susan Shepherd was, none the less, so decidedly wonderful that the sense of it might really have begun, by an effect already operating, to be a part of her knowledge. He saw, and it stirred him, that she hadn't come to judge him; had come rather, so far as she might dare, to pity. This showed him her own abasement—that, at any rate, of grief; and made him feel with a rush of friendliness that he liked to be with her. The rush had quickened when she met his groan with an attenuation.
"We shall at all events—if that's anything—be together."
It was his own good impulse in herself. "It's what I've ventured to feel. It's much," She re-
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