You ought to have some wonderful woman who would
understand your greatness, would see all that you are."
"Now," he sighed, "now I _am_ great--because you think I am; that's
water to me--after a lifetime of thirst."
"Hugh, _am_ I good enough for you?" She was sobbing and laughing at
the same time.
It was too much for him. He drew himself gently away. He whispered:
"I can't bear being loved--being happy. I'll go out by myself for
a bit alone. Sylvie, Sylvie! Every instant I--I worship _you_!" He
threw himself down before her and pressed his face against her knees.
She caressed the thick, grizzled hair. He stood up and then stumbled
away from her, more blind than she, out of the house into the
gathering night.
CHAPTER VI
In the big, rudely carved chair Sylvie leaned back her head and
pressed her hands to her unseeing eyes. She was not sorry that Hugh
had left her, for she was oppressed and unnerved by her own emotions.
Until he had kissed her hair, she had not known that she loved him--or
rather loved an invisible presence that had enveloped her in an
atmosphere of sympathy, of protection, that had painted itself, so
to speak, in heroic colors and proportions against her darkness, that
had revealed both strength and tenderness in touch and movement, and
warm, deep voice.
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