THE WINGS OF THE DOVE
Mrs. Stringham looked about in her darkness. "I don't know. I come and talk of her here with you."
It made him again hesitate. "Does she utterly hate me?"
"I don't know. How can I? No one ever will."
"She'll never tell?"
"She'll never tell."
Once more he thought. "She must be magnificent."
"She is magnificent."
His friend, after all, helped him, and he turned it, so far as he could, all over. "Would she see me again?"
It made his companion stare. "Should you like to see her?"
"You mean as you describe her?" He saw her surprise, and it took him some time. "No."
"Ah then!" Mrs. Stringham sighed.
"But if she could bear it I'd do anything."
She had for the moment her vision of this, but it collapsed. "I don't see what you can do."
"I don't, either. But she might."
Mrs. Stringham continued to think. "It's too late."
"Too late for her to see———?"
"Too late."
The very decision of her despair—it was after all so lucid—kindled in him a heat. "But the doctor, all the while———?"
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