He began at once, standing before her, relating in simple unbroken speech the story of his student days, without pleading or extenuation; waiting at the end for her judgment.
“And that first photograph that I liked, was before; and the other, after.”
“That is so.”
“In the first there is someone looking out through the eyes; in the other that someone has moved away.”
“That is so. I agree.”
“Well, can’t you see? Never to come back. Never to come back.”
“Miriam. Remember I am no more that man. I was in suffering and in ignorance. It would have been better otherwise. I agree with you. But that is all past. I am no more that man.”
“Can’t you see that there is no past?”
“I confess I do not understand this.”
“It is crowding all round you. I felt it. Don’t you remember? Before I knew. It comes between us all the time. I know now. It’s not an idea; or prudishness. It’s more solid than the space of air between us. I can’t get through it.”
“Remember I was suffering and alone .” Somewhere within the vibrating tones was the careless shouting of his boyhood; that past was there too; and the eager lifting voice of his earlier student days, still sometimes alive in the reverie of his lifted singing brows. The voice had been quelled. In his memory as he stood there before her was pain, young lonely pain. Within the life thrown open without reservation to her gaze,