"Because you love each other far too well," says George, sadly; "because you ought never to have met again, never."
"Are you afraid for me?" I ask, so low that surely his ears cannot catch my words, while the blood leaps into my cheeks like a living thing and shames me.
"Not exactly afraid, Nell—but both you and he have had more laid upon your shoulders than mortals can well bear, and—be angry with me if you will, but I must dare to speak the truth—there is danger," he says, slowly and reluctantly. If it is bitter to me to listen, it is bitterer still to him to speak.
"Do you think," I say, trembling under all the weight that binds me down," that we are so sinful, so weak, so worthless? Do you think that I ever for one moment forget that he is another woman's husband?"
"I know you do not," says George, "your behaviour has always been perfect; but can you tell me from the bottom of your heart that the mere sound of his voice, the merest chance look at his face, is not the greatest good this world contains for you? True, you never forget he is another woman's husband, but do you ever forget that he was once your lover—that he is your lover still?"
He pauses a moment; but I do not answer, and he goes on—
"Can any one help seeing that you are his idol, the very core of his heart; that his eyes follow your every movement and step, his ears wait on your every word; that he breaks off in the midst of a conversation if you speak, and loses himself in what you are saying?"
"And do you know," I say, slowly, "that since he came back, three months ago, we have not so much as touched each other's hands?"
"It would be far better if you did," says George, with an impatient sigh—"far better if you could, I mean. It is dangerous
