Neither did my brother. But I didn’t know this till some time
afterwards; for, somehow, we hadn’t cared to speak about it. And in the
end it was he who spoke first.
We were sitting together in that room, one evening in November, when he
said, suddenly and irrelevantly:
“Helen—do you never see her now?”
“No,” I said—“Never!”
“Do you think, then, she doesn’t come?”
“Why should she?” I said. “She found what she came for. She knows what
she wanted to know.”
“And that—was what?”
“Why, that you loved her.”
His eyes had a queer, submissive, wistful look.
“You think that was why she came back?” he said.