He saw himself at the end of his
journey. He saw Desire. He saw a grudging moment, or second perhaps,
devoted to explanation. And then--How happy they were going to be!
(If the train would only forget to stop at stations it might get
somewhere.) How wonderful it would be to feel the empty world grow
full again! To raise one's eyes, just casually, and to see--Desire.
To speak, in just one's ordinary voice, and to know she heard. To
stretch out one's hand and feel that she was there. (What were they
doing now? Putting on more cars? Outrageous!) He would even write
that book presently, when he got around to it. (When one felt sure
one could write.) But first they would go away, just he and she,
east of the sun and west of the moon. They would sit together
somewhere, as they used to sit on the sun-warmed grass at Friendly
Bay, and say nothing at all. . . . How nearly they had missed it . . .
but it would be all right now. Love, whom they had both denied,
had both given and forgiven. It would be all right, it must be all
right, now! (But how the train crawled.)
Poor John, poor old Bones! What a blow it had been for him. Although
he should certainly have had more sense than to fancy--Well, of
course, a man can fancy anything it he wants it badly enough. Spence
was honestly sorry for John--that is, he would be when he had time
to consider John's case. But John, too, would be all right
presently. (Why under heaven do trains need to wait ten minutes
while silly people walk on platforms without hats?) John would marry
a nice girl.
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