Page:The Inheritors, An Extravagant Story.djvu/247

 only the portrait of a man—of a man who has been dead—oh, a long time; and I, for you, only a possibility. . . a conception. . . You work to bring me on—to make me possible."

"But—" I said. The idea was so difficult to grasp. "I will—there must be a way—"

"No," she answered, "there is no way—you must go back; must try. There will be Churchill and what he stands for—He won't die, he won't even care much for losing this game . . . not much . . . And you will have to forget me. There is no other way—no bridge. We can't meet, you and I . . ."

The words goaded me to fury. I began to pace furiously up and down. I wanted to tell her that I would throw away everything for her, would crush myself out, would be a lifeless tool, would do anything. But I could tear no words out of the stone that seemed to surround me.

"You may even tell him, if you like, what I and Gurnard are going to do. It will make no difference; he will fall. But you would like him to—to make a good fight for it, wouldn't you? That is all I can do . . . for your sake."

I began to speak—as if I had not spoken for