THE SACRED FOUNT
my person, really, that gave its charm to my theory; I think it was much more my theory that gave its charm to my person. My person, I flatter myself, has remained through these few hours—hours of tension, but of a tension, you see, purely intellectual—as good as ever; so that if we're not, even in our anomalous situation, in danger from any such source, it's simply that my theory is dead and that the blight of the rest is involved."
My words were indeed many, but she plumped straight through them. "As soon as I was away from you I hated you."
"Hated me?"
"Well, hated what you call 'the rest'—hated your theory."
"I see. Yet," I reflected, "you're not at present—though you wish to goodness, no doubt, you were—away from me."
"Oh, I don't care now," she said with courage; "since—for you see I believe you—we're away from your delusions."
"You wouldn't, in spite of your belief,"—I smiled at her—"like to be a little further off yet?" But before she could answer, and because also, doubtless, the question had too much the sound of a taunt, I came up, as if for her real convenience, quite in another place. "Perhaps my idea—my timing, that is, of your crisis—is the result, in my mind, of my own association with that particular instant.
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