"Oh, the way Anne looks at people--"

"Well, you know, it's something tremendous, something terrible.
Unutterable things, you know. She knocks the Inquisition and the day of
judgment all to pieces. They're simply not in it. It's awfully hard lines
on me, you see, because I like her."

"I'm glad you like her."

"Oh, I only like her because she likes you, I think."

"And I like her. Please remember that."

"I do remember it. I say, Edie, tell me, is she awfully devoted and all
that?"

"To Walter? Yes, very devoted."

"That's all right, then. I don't think I mind so much now. As long as
I can come and see you just the same."

"Of course you'll come and see me, just the same."

He pondered for a long time over that. Seeing Edith was the best thing he
could do. To-night it seemed the only good thing left for him to do. He
lived in a state of alternate excitement and fatigue, forever craving his
innocent amusements, and forever tired of them. None of them were worth
while. Seeing Edith was the only thing that was worth while. He refused
to contemplate with any calmness a life in which it would be impossible
for him to see her. If the poor prodigal had not chosen the most elevated
situation for the building of his house of life, he was always making
desperate efforts to leave the insalubrious spot, and return to the high
and windswept mansions of his youth. To be with Edith was to nourish the
illusion of return. Return itself seemed possible, when goodness, in the
person of Edith, looked at him with such tender and alluring eyes. In
spirit he prostrated himself before it, while he cursed the damnable
cruelty that had prevented him from marrying her. Through that act of
adoration he was enabled to live through his alien and separated days.
It kept him, as he phrased it, "going," which meant that, wherever his
rebellious feet might carry him, he continued to breathe, through it, the
diviner air.

And Edith had lain for ten years on her back, and every year the hours
had gone more lightly, through the hope of seeing him. She had outlived
her time of torment and rebellion. There was a sense in which her life,
in spite of its frustration, was complete. The love through which her
womanhood struggled for victory in defeat had fulfilled itself by gradual
growth into something like maternal passion. There was no selfishness in
her attitude to him and his devotion. By accepting it she took his best
and offered it to God f