THE WINGS OF THE DOVE
smile, this time, to spare. "Precisely—so that I must choose."
"You must choose."
Strange it was for him then that she stood in his own rooms doing it, while, with an intensity now beyond any that had ever made his breath come slow to him, he waited for her act. "There's but one thing that can save you from my choice."
"From your choice of my surrender to you?"
"Yes"—and she gave a nod at the long envelope on the table—"your surrender of that."
"What is it then?"
"Your word of honour that you're not in love with her memory."
"Oh—her memory!"
"Ah"—she made a high gesture—"don't speak of it as if you couldn't be. I could, in your place; and you're one for whom it will do. Her memory's your love. You want no other."
He heard her out in stillness, watching her face, but not moving. Then he only said: "I'll marry you, mind you, in an hour."
"As we were?"
"As we were."
But she turned to the door, and her headshake was now the end. "We shall never be again as we were!"
THE END
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