"Yes . . . I do . . ."
"So everything remains . . ." he said, hesitatingly.
"As it was," she replied, almost inaudibly; and her voice hesitated also.
"He told you . . . the reason?" he went on.
"Yes."
"I could not do without him . . . all the time that he would be with you, Constance. And you couldn't do without the boy either, could you, while he was with me?"
"No," she said, automatically; and, as her voice failed her, she repeated, more firmly, "No, I should not be able to do without him."
At that moment, she did not know if she was speaking the truth or not. Only she had a vague sensation . . . as though that fair, unsullied truth were retreating a little farther from her . . . like a glittering cloud . . .
"Then we might try to be more patient with each other," he said. "But still I should like to tell you, Constance, that I appreciate your thought . . . your intention . . ."
"Yes," she said, vaguely.
"Your thought for me . . ."
"Yes."
But she now found it impossible to let that retreating truth slip still farther from her; and she said:
"I was thinking of myself also, Henri . . . but
