You were my bride, alive,
gloriously free--once more, you were the Desired. I loved you, Mary." He
rose and put his hands on her shoulders. Her face was as white as his
now. His hands dropped, he almost leapt away from her, the muscles of his
face writhed. "My God, Mary, I've never wanted to _think_ about you,
only to feel and see you! Now I must think. This--this existence that you
have described! Is that all you ask of life? Are you sure?"
"What more could one ask!" she uttered, dazed.
"What _more?_" he cried out, throwing up his arms. "What
_more,_ Mary! Why, it isn't life at all, this deadly, petty
intricate day by day, surrounded by things, and more things. The
hopeless, unalterable tameness of it!" He began to pace the room.
"But, my dear, I don't understand you. We have love, and work, and if
some part of our life is petty, why, every one's always has been, hasn't
it?"
She was deeply moved by his distress, afraid again for their happiness,
longing to comfort him. Yet, under and apart from all these emotions,
some cool little faculty of criticism wondered if he was not making
rather a theatrical scene. "Daily life must be a little monotonous,
mustn't it?" she urged again, trying to help him.
"No!" he almost shouted, with a gesture of fierce repudiation.
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