'
'What else could I have done? And then, I was not jealous, I am not
now, I never shall be, of him.'
'You are right in that, dear. That is not the sort of love that a man
need be jealous of. It is not love at all, as we think of love, strong
as it is.'
'How much you know!'
'I know about love--yes, a great deal, for I have thought about it,
ever since I first loved you, when I was little. Yes, I know much about
love, much more than you would think. What Rex feels, is a sort of wild
adoration, half ecstasy, half imagination, which he connects in some
way with my face and the sound of my voice. That is all. It is not like
what I feel for you, or you for me. He would not be sorry if I died. It
would make it easier for him. He would build temples to me, and kneel
before a picture of me, and be quite as happy as he is now. One sees
that. And yet it is all so real, and he suffers so fearfully, that his
hair has turned white. Poor fellow, and I am so very fond of him!'
'What makes you think all you say, Hilda?' asked Greif, growing
interested in her strange view of the case.
'The whole thing. He is as fond of you as ever, and more so, just as
you are of him. Now if it were our sort of love, you two would
instinctively go and cut each other's throats, and that would be the
natural ending. Instead of that, you love each other like brothers as
you are. Do you not see that it must be a different kind of love from
ours?'
'Yes. You are right.
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