es, for his eyes were almost
vacant, as if their vision had been reversed.

"I have had some hours of utter despair, in spite of the double
excitement of these past weeks, for it has seemed to me that I was no
nearer to you than I had been in the beginning. There was a sense of
unreality about the whole affair. At first it seemed to me the most
romantic thing that could happen to any man, and it was incredible that I
had been chosen the hero of such an extraordinary romance--intensified,
if anything, by the fact that it was set in roaring New York, where you
have to talk at the top of your voice to hear yourself think. . . . But
that passed--in a measure. I was beset by the fear--at times, I mean: I
was not always in a state to look inward--that you were slipping away.
Not that I doubted for a moment you would marry me, but that your
innermost inscrutable self had withdrawn, and that you accepted what must
have appeared to be my own attitude--that we were merely two vital
beings, who saw in each other a prospect of a superior sort of sensual
delight----"

"That is not true," she interrupted him fiercely. "But you seemed to me
to be in that phase when a man can think of nothing else. If I hadn't
hoped--and believed--in you against all I knew of men, I'd never have
gone on with it."

"I'm sure that is true. I must have disappointed you horribly. You had
felt the bond from the beginning, and I can imagine what you must have
dreamed I alone could give you. The trouble was that I didn't realize
that I alone was in fault, at the time. That boiling pot in my brain was
making too much noise. But I can assure you that I have returned to
normal, and if I thought I couldn't satisfy you I'd let you go without a
word. But you know that I can, don't you?"

She nodded.

"What is it, I wonder?" He sighed. "I wish I knew. But it is enough to
feel. . . . You must understand that in spite of the erratic creature
you have known since you refused to marry me at once and left me with no
resource but to let that play boil out, I am man first and a writer
incidentally. I also have a stronger ambition to be your husband than to
write plays. If I don't strangle what talent I have it is because I must
have the money to be independent of newspaper work. Otherwise I should
have neither peace of mind nor be able to live abroad with you. I know
that you cannot be happy here, and I am not a victim of that ancient myth
that tw