For a moment her face shone. There was a look of gratitude in her
eyes. Her impulsive grasp of his hand left his fingers tingling.
"I am glad that you understood," she murmured. "Perhaps that will
help me just a little. For the rest, if you wish to be very kind,
you will forget."
"If I cannot do that," he promised, "I will at least turn the key
upon my memories."
"Do more than that," she begged. "Throw the key into the sea, or
whatever oblivion you choose to conjure up. Moments such as those
have no place in my life. There is one purpose there more intense
than anything else, that very purpose which by some grim irony of
fate it seems to be within your power to destroy."
He remained silent. Ordinary expressions of regret seemed too
inadequate. Besides, the charm of the moment was passing. The
other side of her was reasserting itself.
"I suppose," she went on, a little drearily, "that even if I told
you upon my honour, of my certain knowledge, that the due delivery
of that packet might save the lives of thousands of your
countrymen, might save hearts from breaking, homes from becoming
destitute--even if I told you all this, would it help me in my
prayer?"
"Nothing could help you," he assured her, "but your whole
confidence, and even then I fear that the result would be the
same."
"Oh, but you are very hard!" she murmured. "My confidence
belongs to others. It is not mine alone to give you."
"You see," he explained, "I know beforehand that you are speaking
the truth as you see it.
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