"Love—Thornton," she repeated in a sort of wondering way, a long pause between the words.
"Yes," he said gently; "I know. Have you forgotten what you told me this afternoon?—that you had learned—last night—what love was."
She shook her head.
"I do not love Thornton," she said in a monotone. "And yet it is true that through him I learned what love was, what it could be—don't you understand?"
Understand! No; it seemed that he could never understand! She did not love Thornton! And then, as some fiery cordial, the words seemed to whip through his veins, quickening the beat of his heart into wild, tumultuous throbbing. Yes, yes, he could understand—it was true—true—she did not love Thornton.
"Helena!" he cried—and stretched out his arms to her. "I thought, oh, God, I thought that I had lost you—Helena!"
But she did not move.
"What does it matter to you whether I love Thornton or not?" she said dully. "Does it change anything where you and I are concerned—does it change what I told you this afternoon—that I would not go back to that."
"To that! Ah, no!" his voice rang dominant, vibrant, triumphant now. "Helena, don't you understand? We are to begin life again—
