He didn't know what
to say. All he found to add was:
"I don't even understand what I have done or left undone to distress you
like this."
He stopped, struck afresh by the physical and moral sense of the
imperfections of their relations--a sense which made him desire her
constant nearness, before his eyes, under his hand, and which, when
she was out of his sight, made her so vague, so elusive and illusory, a
promise that could not be embraced and held.
"No! I don't see clearly what you mean. Is your mind turned towards the
future?" he interpellated her with marked playfulness, because he
was ashamed to let such a word pass his lips. But all his cherished
negations were falling off him one by one.
"Because if it is so there is nothing easier than to dismiss it. In our
future, as in what people call the other life, there is nothing to be
frightened of."
She raised her eyes to him; and if nature had formed them to express
anything else but blank candour he would have learned how terrified
she was by his talk and the fact that her sinking heart loved him more
desperately than ever. He smiled at her.
"Dismiss all thought of it," he insisted. "Surely you don't suspect
after what I have heard from you, that I am anxious to return to
mankind. I! I! murder my poor Morrison! It's possible that I may be
really capable of that which they say I have done.
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