THE BETTER SORT
"Then how will it appear strange?"
Marcher bethought himself. "It won't—to me."
"To whom then?"
"Well," he replied, smiling at last, "say to you."
"Oh then, I'm to be present?"
"Why, you are present—since you know."
"I see." She turned it over. "But I mean at the catastrophe."
At this, for a minute, their lightness gave way to their gravity; it was as if the long look they exchanged held them together. "It will only depend on yourself—if you'll watch with me."
"Are you afraid?" she asked.
"Don't leave me now," he went on.
"Are you afraid?" she repeated.
"Do you think me simply out of my mind?" he pursued instead of answering. "Do I merely strike you as a harmless lunatic?"
"No," said May Bartram. "I understand you. I believe you."
"You mean you feel how my obsession—poor old thing!—may correspond to some possible reality?"
"To some possible reality."
"Then you will watch with me?"
She hesitated, then for the third time put her question. "Are you afraid?"
"Did I tell you I was at Naples?"
"No, you said nothing about it."
"Then I don't know. And I should like to know," said John Marcher. "You'll tell me yourself whether you think so. If you'll watch with me you'll see."
"Very good then." They had been moving by this time across the room, and at the door, before passing out, they paused as if for the full wind-up of their understanding. "I'll watch with you," said May Bartram.
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