taken a shorter cut to forestall his own conclusion.

"Don't think the things you are thinking!" she said in a fierce little
voice, leaning toward him.

"What do you mean?" he asked, taken aback.

"You know! Don't! It is unfair--it is--is faithless--to me. I am your
friend; why not? Does it make any difference to you whom I marry? Cannot
two people remain in accord anyway? Their friendship concerns each other
and--nobody else!" She was letting herself go now; she was conscious of
it, conscious that impulse and emotion were the currents unloosed and
hurrying her onward. And with it all came exhilaration, a faint
intoxication, a delicate delight in daring to let go all and trust to
impulse and emotions.

"Why should you feel hurt because for a moment you let me see--gave me a
glimpse of yourself--of life's battle as you foresee it? What if there is
always a reaction from all confidences exchanged? What if that miserable
French cynic did say that never was he more alone than after confessing
to a friend? He died crazy anyhow. Is not a rare moment of confidence
worth the reaction--the subsidence into the armored shell of self? Tell
me truly, Mr. Siward, isn't it?"

Breathless, confused, exhilarated by her own rapid voice she bent her
face, brilliant with colour, and very sweet; and he looked up into it,
expectant, uncertain.

"If such a friendship as ours is to become worth anything to you--to me,
why should it trouble you that I know--and am thinking of things that