here, and it's true. But I also told you I can't marry you, and that's true too. There are reasons why I can't—many excellent reasons—but not caring enough about you isn't one of them."
"Well, what is one of them? You're not married already. You say you don't love anyone else any better. What is it? This damn vagueness is driving me crazy, Yvonne! Don't you think it's about time you told me a little about yourself?"
For the barest minute Yvonne seemed to waver, and Jock thought, "Now! Now, I'm going to know!" But when she spoke it was to say, "After I come back I'll tell you everything. But not today. I want to leave you thinking of me—sweetly."
"Nothing you could tell me would ever change the way I think of you, Yvonne. You know that."
"I—hope that." She made a noticeable distinction.
There was a silence, and then she rose and went out of the room. Jock remained, brooding. . . . Several months. It had a ghastly sound, incessant and drear, like a prison sentence. Several months without Yvonne. Without beauty, without color, without flame. A stretching nothingness. An zon of misery, to be got through heaven alone knew how. But she cared a little, and that was something. And when she returned she would tell him. . . .
Presently he became restless. His last afternoon with her, and again he was waiting here alone, squandering all too many Priceless minutes. "Yvonne!" he shouted.
"Yes?"
"Come back here!"
"I will, in a second. I'm putting a hat and coat on."
"Why, what for?"
