“Of course,” she said, hesitating a little over a transparent
difficulty, “it is all over and past.”
“It's all over and past,” I answered.
There was a little pause.
“I don't want to know,” she said. “None of that seems to matter now in
the slightest degree.”
She looked up and smiled as though we had exchanged some acceptable
commonplaces. “Poor dear!” she said, dismissing everything, and put out
her arms, and it seemed to me that I could hear the Lettish girl in
the background--doomed safety valve of purity in this intolerable
world--telling something in indistinguishable German--I know not what
nor why....
I took Margaret in my arms and kissed her. Her eyes were wet with tears.
She clung to me and was near, I felt, to sobbing.
“I have loved you,” she whispered presently, “Oh! ever since we met in
Misterton--six years and more ago.”