“Are you a woman?” I asked suddenly.
Perhaps I should not have asked it; she was so sad and beautiful,
somehow I could not doubt her sincerity. There was a burden at the
back of her sadness, some great yearning unsatisfied, unattainable.
She dropped her head. The hand upon my arm quivered and clutched
spasmodically; I caught the least sound of a sob. When I looked up her
eyes were wet and sparkling.
“Oh,” she said. “Harry, why do you ask it? A woman! Harry, a woman! To
live and love and to be loved. What must it be? There is so much of life
that is sweet and pure. I love it--I love it! I can have everything
but the most exalted thing of all. I can live, see, enjoy, think, but I
cannot have love. You knew it from the first. How did you know it? You
said--Ah, it is true! I am out of the moonbeams.” She controlled herself
suddenly. “Excuse me,” she said simply. “But you can never understand.
May I have the ring?”
It was like a dream--her beauty, her voice, everything. But I could
still hear Watson. I was to be tempted, cajoled, flattered. What was
this story out of the moonbeams? Certainly she was the most beautiful
girl I had ever seen. Why had I asked such a question?
“I shall keep the ring,” I answered.
She sighed. A strange weakness came over me; I was drowsy; I lapsed
again into unconsciousness; just as I was fading away I heard her
speaking: “I am so sorry!”