for a time we said very little. then irregularly, disconnectedly, we began to tell each other things about ourselves.
the substance of our lives seemed strangely objective that day; we had as it were come to one another clean out of our common conditions. she told me of her troubles and her secret weaknesses; we bared our spirits and confessed. both of us had the same tale of mean and angry and hasty impulses, both of us could find kindred inconsistencies, both had an exalted assurance that the other would understand completely and forgive and love. she talked for the most part, she talked much more than i, with a sort of wonder at the things that had happened to her, and for long spaces we did not talk at all nor feel the need of talking, and what seems very strange to me now, seeing that we had been impassioned lovers, we never kissed; we never kissed at all; i do not even remember that i thought of kissing her. we had a shyness between us that kept us a little apart, and i cannot remember that we ever touched one another except that for a time she took me and led me by the hand towards a little place of starry flowers that had drawn her eyes and which she wished me to see. already for us two our bodies were dead and gone. we were shy, shy of any contact, we were a little afraid of one another, there was a kind of awe between us that we had met again.
and in that strange and beautiful place her fancy that we were dead together had a fitness that i cannot possibly convey to you. i cannot give you by any writing the light and the sweet freshness of that high desolation. you would need to go there. what was lovely in our talk, being said in that setting, would seem but a rambling discourse were i to write it down,—as i believe that even now i could write it down—word for word almost, every thought of it, so fresh does it remain with me....
my dear, some moments are eternal. it seems to me that as i write to tell you of this i am telling you not of something that happened two years ago but of a thing immortal. it is as if i and mary were together there holding the realities of our lives before us as though they were little sorry tales written in books upon our knees....
