have been a consolation amid the constant disappointment encountered with the many souls, the thousands . . . And a swift, keen hope seemed to flash before him . . . not only of having found at last . . . in silence . . . but of venturing to utter it . . . once; and so keen, so dazzling was the hope that at first he did not hear her say:
"But Henri . . . thinks it is better . . . not . . ."
"What?" he asked, as though deaf, as though blind.
She repeated:
"Henri thinks it is better not. . . . Because of our boy . . . of Addie . . ."
The keen hope had flashed for only a second, swiftly, with its dizzying rays . . .
Uttered it would never be . . . To have found in silence: alas, that was all illusion . . . a dream . . . when one is very young . . .
"He is right," he said, in a low voice.
"Is he right?" she asked, sadly. And, more firmly, she repeated, "Yes, he is right . . ."
"I should have been sorry . . . for Addie's sake," he said.
"Yes," she repeated, as though in a trance. "I should have been sorry for Addie's sake. But I had thought that I should be able to live at last—my God, at last!—in absolute truth and sincerity . . .
