"Oh no! Far from it!" With which she got up from her chair and was
nearer to him. "But I don't care," she smiled.

"You mean I'm good enough?"

She considered a little. "Will you believe it if I say so? I mean will
you let that settle your question for you?" And then as if making out in
his face that he drew back from this, that he had some idea which,
however absurd, he couldn't yet bargain away: "Oh you don't care
either--but very differently: you don't care for anything but yourself."

Spencer Brydon recognised it--it was in fact what he had absolutely
professed. Yet he importantly qualified. "_He_ isn't myself. He's the
just so totally other person. But I do want to see him," he added. "And
I can. And I shall."

Their eyes met for a minute while he guessed from something in hers that
she divined his strange sense. But neither of them otherwise expressed
it, and her apparent understanding, with no protesting shock, no easy
derision, touched him more deeply than anything yet, constituting for his
stifled perversity, on the spot, an element that was like breatheable
air. What she said however was unexpected. "Well, _I've_ seen him."

"You--?"

"I've seen him in a dream."

"Oh a 'dream'--!" It let him down.

"But twice over," she continued. "I saw him as I see you now."