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When the steamer had passed into darkness, Martin said:
"I don't want to hurt you again, Mary, but before I go there's something
I want to know. . . . If you cannot divorce your husband, and if . . .
if you cannot come to me what . . . what is left to us?"
I tried to tell him there was only one thing left to us, and (as much
for myself as for him) I did my best to picture the spiritual heights
and beauties of renunciation.
"Does that mean that we are to . . . to part?" he said. "You going your
way and I going mine . . . never to meet again?"
That cut me to the quick, so I said--it was all I could trust myself to
say--that the utmost that was expected of us was that we should govern
our affections--control and conquer them.
"Do you mean that we are to stamp them out altogether?" he said.
That cut me to the quick too, and I felt like a torn bird that is
struggling in the lime, but I contrived to say that if our love was
guilty love it was our duty to destroy it.
"Is that possible?" he said.


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