The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. ‘Hilary, thank God! Have you a pistol about you? Or better yet, your sword. I do want them. ’ I wanted, as I have never wanted before, to take you up, to make you mine, to carry you off and set you apart from all the strain and turmoil of life. Their chit-chat stopped when they reached the bench. “Will you be moral and your species, or immoral and yourself? We’ve decided to be immoral. “I’m sorry! Mary! Are you hurt?” “No. She wanted to be alone. " "Have you told him so?" she inquired, reproachfully. "There is nobody else. ” “Do what?” “Oh!—anything. Certain reserves went down on both sides. She went about, intentlooking and self-possessed, trim and fine, concealing her emotions whatever they were, as the realities of her position opened out before her.
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