"I have suffered enough, Adam," she pleaded.
I answered quietly, doggedly, for there was nothing left in me to
appeal to:
"I am glad we can part kindly. . . . Neither of us may care much
for the kindness now, but we will not be sorry hereafter. . . .
The quarrels, the mistakes, the right and the wrong of our lives,
the misunderstandings--they are so strange, so pitiful, so full of
pain, and come so soon to nothing." And I lifted my hat, and took
the path towards my house.
There was a point ahead where it divided, the other branch leading
towards the little private gate through which Georgiana had come.
Just before reaching the porch I looked that way, with the idea
that I should see Georgiana's white figure moving across the lawn;
but I discovered that she was following me. Mounting my door-steps,
I turned. She had paused on the threshold. I waited. At length
she said, in a voice low and sorrowful:
"And you are not going to forgive me, Adam?"
"I _do_ forgive you!" The silence fell and lasted. I no longer
saw her face. At last her despairing voice barely reached me again:
"And--is--_that_--all?"