"You _know_ that it would last a week?"
I began to feel a little angry, and I said, quite sharply: "I _know_
it."
"A month?"
"Yes, a month."
Both our voices had risen. His became easy and level once more.
"A year, Archie?"
"How can I know that, John?" I tried to meet his quick change of
manner. "I _think_ so. I'm very sure of it."
"But you don't know?"
"I can't _know_."
"And if the very pretty woman on the island came to you in the night
and said she had seen hob-goblin eyes in the dark, and was afraid--how
long, though you still love her, would you be faithful to Lucy? A man
like you, in good health, with an incompletely developed moral sense?"
"We are getting nowhere," I said, determined to keep my temper.
"We are getting to this," said he, "that if a year from today, you and
Lucy still love each other, and have been faithful to each other, and
still want each other--you shall have each other."
"A year?" I think he smiled at the surprise and disappointment in my
voice.
"During which year," he said, "you will not meet each other except by
accident, and you will not correspond."