He had wrought
for himself a masterpiece of pure and faultless beauty; when another took
it from him, he had endured; now the other spoilt and stained and defiled
it; could he still endure? It seems sometimes as though the deep silence
of night carries thoughts from heart to heart that would be lost in the
passage through the broken tumultuous sea of day. The thought that was in
him he felt to be in her also, changed as her mind would change it, yet
in essence the same. She had now no ironical smiles for him, no fencing,
and no playing with her fate; and he had for her no talk of loyalty. The
time for these was gone in the light of the confidence that her silence
gave him; it told him everything, and he had no rebuke for its openness.
At last he put out his hand and lightly pressed hers for a moment. She
turned her eyes on him.
"It's a little hard, isn't it?" she asked. "I can stand most things, but
it's hard to have to tell lies to your friends." Her voice rose a little
and shook as the composure which she had so long kept failed her.
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