She knew
her share in all this that he recounted. He might not
dream of it, might well confound her with the general
pulse; but she knew the sweet and separate subcurrent
that her life had been in his, felt herself underlying
all these new joys of his, could tell him how dear she
was. But it seemed that he must not guess.
It came to her with force that his dim perception of his
case was grotesque, that it humiliated him. She had a
quick desire that he should at least know that civilized,
sentient beings did not lend themselves to such outrageous
comedies as this which he had confessed; it had somehow
the air of a confession. She could not let him fall so
lamentably short of man's dignity, of man's estate, for
his own sake.
"It is a curious history," she said. "You are right in
thinking I should not find it quite easy to understand.
We make those--arrangements--so much more for ourselves
over here. Perhaps we think them more important than they
are."
"But they are of the highest importance." He stopped
short, confounded.
"I shall try to consecrate my marriage," he said presently,
more to himself than to Advena.
Her thought told him bitterly: "I am afraid it is the
only thing you can do with it," but something else came
to her lips.
"I have not congratulated you.
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