"She feels that—. She feels—she does not say, of course, but I know she feels that it is something she ought to share. I know—how she cares for me. And it shames her—it reminds her—. Don't you see how it hurts her?"
"Yes. I see. So that even that little—." Miss Heydinger's breath seemed to catch and she was abruptly silent.
She spoke at last with an effort. "That it hurts me," she said, and grimaced and stopped again.
"No," said Lewisham, "that is not it." He hesitated.
"I knew this would hurt you."
"You love her. You can sacrifice—"
"No. It is not that. But there is a difference. Hurting her—she would not understand. But you—somehow it seems a natural thing for me to come to you. I seem to look to you—. For her I am always making allowances—"
"You love her."
"I wonder if it is that makes the difference. Things are so complex. Love means anything—or nothing. I know you better than I do her, you know me better than she will ever do. I could tell you things I could not tell her. I could put all myself before you—almost—and know you would understand—. Only—"
"You love her."
