"Yes?" he said, eagerly. "Yes? And what, then?"
"And yet--oh, Chip, I feel something else!" She leaned still further
toward him, as if to annihilate the slight distance between them. "Don't
you?"
"Something else--how?"
"Something else--higher--as if our loving each other wasn't the thing of
most importance. I thought it was. All these years--I mean
latterly--I've thought it was. When we met in England I was sure it was.
Since I've been back with him I've felt that I would have died gladly
just to have one more day with you, like those at Maidenhead and
Tunbridge Wells. But now--oh, Chip, I don't know _what_ to say!"
"Is it because he's been so generous?"
She shook her head. "Not altogether. No; I don't think it's that at all.
He's more than generous; he's tender. You can't think how tender he
is--and always has been--with me and with the children. That's why I
married him--why I thought I could find a sort of rest with him. You see
that, don't you?--without judging me too harshly. He's that kind. I'm
used to it with him. He can't help being generous. I knew he would be
when I told him we'd met in England. I told him because I couldn't do
anything else. It was a way of talking about you--even if it was only
that way. But, oh, Chip, if I left him now and went back to you--"
"Yes, darling? What?" He spoke huskily, covering both her hands with one
of his and crushing them. "If you left him now and came back to
me--what?"
She hurried on. "And then there's--there's the other woman. We mustn't
forget _her_. What's her name, Chip?"
"Lily. She was Lily Bland."
"Yes, yes; of course. I knew that. And she loves you? But how could she
help loving you? I'd hate her if she didn't. Curiously enough I don't
hate her now. I wonder why? I suppose it's because I'm so sorry for her.
She's a sweet woman, isn't she?"
He answered, with head averted. "She's as noble in her way as--as this
man is in his."
"That's just what I thought. I used to see her when she came to our
house to call for the children. It never occurred to me that you'd
marry her. If it had I don't know what I should have--But it's no use
going back to that now. What would you do about her, Chip, if we decided
to--to take the chance that's opened up--?"
"I don't know. I've never thought about it. I--I suppose she'd let me
go--just as he's letting you go--if I put it to her in the right way."
"And what would be the right way?"
"Oh, Lord, Edith, don't ask me. How do _I_ know? I should have to tell
her--the truth."
"And what would happen then?--to her I mean."
"I've no idea. She'd bear up against it. She's that sort of person. But
then, inwardly, she'd very likely break her heart."
"Oh, Chip, is it worth while? Think!"
"I _am_ thinking."
"Is it the spirit? That's the thing to find out."