THE BEAST IN THE JUNGLE
then bravely added, "to have been able to see what it's not."
He continued to attach his eyes to her, and with the sense that it was all beyond him, and that she was too, he would still have sharply challenged her, had he not felt it an abuse of her weakness to do more than take devoutly what she gave him, take it as hushed as to a revelation. If he did speak, it was out of the foreknowledge of his loneliness to come. "If you're glad of what it's 'not,' it might then have been worse?"
She turned her eyes away, she looked straight before her with which, after a moment: "Well, you know our fears."
He wondered. "It's something then we never feared?"
On this, slowly, she turned to him. "Did we ever dream, with all our dreams, that we should sit and talk of it thus?"
He tried for a little to make out if they had; but it was as if their dreams, numberless enough, were in solution in some thick, cold mist, in which thought lost itself. "It might have been that we couldn't talk?"
"Well"—she did her best for him—"not from this side. This, you see," she said, "is the other side."
"I think," poor Marcher returned, "that all sides are the same to me." Then, however, as she softly shook her head in correction: "We mightn't, as it were, have got across?"
"To where we are—no. We're here"—she made her weak emphasis.
"And much good does it do us!" was her friend's frank comment.
"It does us the good it can. It does us the good that it isn't here. It's past. It's behind," said May Bartram. "Before———" but her voice dropped.
He had got up, not to tire her, but it was hard to
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