And then, the tameless something in her soul, which was her very
self, rose up, rejoicing in its own strength, and yet--wistful, full of
tenderness. Now!--let her play her stroke--her stroke in the new great
game that was to be, in the new age, between men and women.
"Why shouldn't we just be friends?" she urged. "I know it sounds an old,
stale thing to say. But it isn't. There's a new meaning in it now,
because--because women are being made new. It used to be offering what
we couldn't give. We could be lovers; we weren't good enough--we hadn't
stuff enough--to be friends. But now--dear Lord Tatham--just try me--"
She held out to him two hands, which he took against his will. "I like
you so much!--I know that I should love your mother. Now that we've had
this out, why shouldn't we build up something quite fresh? I want a
friend--so badly!"
"And I want something--so much more than a friend!" he said, pressing her
hands fiercely.
"Ah, but give it up!" she pleaded. "If you can't, I mustn't come here any
more, nor you to us. And why? It would be such a waste--of what our
friendship might be. You could teach me so many things. I think I could
teach you some."
He dropped her hands, mastering himself with difficulty.
"It's nonsense," he said shortly; "I know it's nonsense! But--if I
promised not to say anything of this kind again for a year?"
She pondered. There were compunctions, remorses, in her. As Susan had
warned her, was she playing with a man's heart and life?
But her trust in her own resources, the zest of spiritual adventure, and
a sheer longing to comfort him prevailed.
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