Teresa was silent. Clasping her hands about her knees she gazed inscrutably at the blue cone of a mountain that rose in France. The sun burned her shoulders, the distant snow sparkled coolly, a light wind swept the feathery tops of the grass and the purple hare-bells.
"What a delicious day," she said vaguely.
Then, after a silence, how long it was she did not know, she said:
"I wish I could."
At last Crayven moved, sat up, took out his cigarette-case.
"Will you have one?" he said with a tired smile.
She looked at his eyes—there had been tears in them—and bent forward and kissed him.
"I do love you," she said softly.
"Ah, yes," he murmured resignedly. "That way."
"That way? Are there so many ways, then?"
"There's only one way. Either it is that or it isn't. … But I knew it from the first. I saw that you were satisfied."
"Satisfied! I'm anything but that."
"Oh, you may not be happy, but you're satisfied. You have no need of anyone. … And I think it was partly that that attracted me in you—that's the irony of my fate! There's nothing beautiful about a need—unless one happens to have the response to it. It's absurd to
