he end of a rainy autumn in
a deserted Swiss hotel had thrown them for a fortnight into unwonted
propinquity. They had walked and talked together, borrowed each other's
books and newspapers, spent the long chill evenings over the fire in the
dim lamplight of her little pitch-pine sitting-room; and she had been
wonderfully comforted by his presence, and hard frozen places in her had
melted, and she had known that she would be desperately sorry when he
went. And then, just at the end, in his odd indirect way, he had let her
see that it rested with her to have him stay. She could still relive the
sleepless night she had given to that discovery. It was preposterous, of
course, to think of repaying his devotion by accepting such a sacrifice;
but how find reasons to convince him? She could not bear to let
him think her less touched, less inclined to him than she was: the
generosity of his love deserved that she should repay it with the truth.
Yet how let him see what she felt, and yet refuse what he offered? How
confess to him what had been on her lips when he made the offer: "I've
seen what it did to one man; and there must never, never be another"?
The tacit ignoring of her past had been the element in which their
friendship lived, and she could not suddenly, to him of all men, begin
to talk of herself like a guilty woman in a play. Somehow, in the end,
she had managed it, had averted a direct explanation, had made him
understand that her life was over, that she existed only for her
daughter, and that a more definite word from him would have been almost
a breach of delicacy. She was so used to be having as if her life were
over! And, at any rate, he had taken her hint, and she had been able to
spare her sensitiveness and his. The next year, when he came to Florence
to see her, they met again in the old friendly way; and that till now
had continued to be the tenor of their intimacy.

And now, suddenly and unexpectedly, he had brought up the question
again, directly this time, and in such a form that she could not evade
it: putting the renewal of his plea, after so long an interval, on the
ground that, on her own showing, her chief argument against it no longer
existed.

"You tell me Leila's happy. If she's happy, she doesn't need you--need
you, that is, in the same way as before. You wanted, I know, to be
always in reach, always free and available if she should suddenly call
you to her or take refuge with you. I understood