He rose quietly. "That's for you and Mr. Walker to discover for
yourselves. I've gone as far as I dare."
"You're not going away?" she asked, hastily.
He smiled at them both. For the first time in Chip's acquaintance with
him it was a positive smile. "I think you'll most easily find your way
alone."
"Oh no. Wait!" she begged; but he had already lifted his hat in his
stately way and begun to walk back toward the hotel.
Then came the bliss of being alone together. In spite of everything,
they felt that. Edith leaned across the rude table, her hands clasped
upon it. She spoke rapidly, as if to make full use of the time.
"Oh, Chip, what are we to do?"
He too leaned across the table, his arms folded upon it, the extinct
cigar still between his fingers. He gazed deep into her eyes. "It's a
chance. It will never come again. Shall we take it?--or let it go?"
"Could you take it, if I did?"
"Could you--if I did?"
She tried to reflect. "It's the spirit," she said, haltingly, after a
minute. "Oughtn't we to get at that?--just as he said. We've had so much
of--of the letter."
"Ah, but what _is_ the spirit? How _do_ you get at it? That's the
point."
She tried to reflect further--further and harder and faster. "Wouldn't
it be--what we _feel_?"
"What we feel is that--that we love each other, isn't it?--that we love
each other as much as we did years ago--more!--more! Isn't that it?"