“Well, then, having got there—­out into that new kind of world”—­he sketched the vision with one of his Latin gestures—­“I discover that—­for one reason or another—­poor little Evie has stayed on the far side of it.  She couldn’t pass the first gate with me, or the second, or the third, to say nothing of those I have still to go through.  You know I’m not criticising, or finding fault with her, don’t you?”

She assured him of that.

“And yet, I must go on, you see.  There’s no waiting or turning back for me, any more than for a dying man.  No matter who goes or who stays, I must press forward.  If Evie can’t make the journey with me, I can only feel relieved that she’s able to slip out of it—­but I must still go on.  I can’t look back; I can’t even be sorry—­because I’m coming into the new, big land.  You see what I mean?”

She signified again that she followed him.

“But the finding of a new land doesn’t take anything from the old one.  It only enlarges the world.  Europe didn’t become different because they discovered America.  The only change was in their getting to know a country where the mountains were higher, and the rivers broader, and the sunshine brighter, and where there was a chance for the race to expand.  Evie remains what she was.  The only difference is that my eyes have been opened to—­a new ideal.”

It was impossible for her not to guess at what he meant.  Independently of words, his earnest eyes told their tale, while he bent toward her like a man not quite able to restrain himself.  In the ensuing seconds of silence she had time to be aware of three distinct phases of emotion within her consciousness, following each other so rapidly as to seem simultaneous.  A throb of reckless joy in the perception that he loved her was succeeded by the knowledge that loyalty to Conquest must make rejoicing vain, while it flashed on her that, having duped herself once in regard to him, she must not risk the humiliating experience a second time.  It was this last reflection that prevailed, keeping her still and unresponsive.  After all, his new ideal might be something—­or some one—­quite different from what her fond imagining was so ready to believe.

“I suppose,” she said, vaguely, for the sake of saying something, “that trial is the first essential to maturity.  We need it for our ripening, as the flowers and fruit need wind and rain.”

“And there are things in life,” he returned, quickly, “that no immature creature can see.  That’s the point I want you to notice.  It explains me.  In a way, it’s an excuse for me.”

“I don’t need excuses for you,” she hastened to say, “any more than I require to have anything explained.”

“No; of course not.  You don’t care anything about it.  It’s only I who do.  But I care so much that I want you to understand why it was that—­that—­I didn’t care before.”

She felt the prompting to stop him, to silence him, but once more she held herself back.  There was still a possibility that she was mistaking him, and her pride was on its guard.