what could he misunderstand? There was nothing to misunderstand.

And so, during her drive home, she had thought all the way of him and
of herself since both were children--of his love and his long
faithfulness, and of her--her--what? Yes--she had been something of a
coquette--she had--she _had_; but men had bothered and worried her, and,
usually, she couldn't help acting as she had. She was so sorry for them
all that she had really tried to like them all. She had succeeded but
once--and even that was a mistake. But she remembered one thing: through
it all--far back as it all was--she had never trifled with Crittenden.
Before him she had dropped foil and mask and stood frankly face to face
always. There was something in him that had always forced that. And he
had loved her through it all, and he had suffered--how much, it had
really never occurred to her until she thought of a sudden that he must
have been hurt as had she--hurt more; for what had been only infatuation
with her had been genuine passion in him; and the months of her
unhappiness scarcely matched the years of his. There was none other in
her life now but him, and, somehow, she was beginning to feel there
never would be. If there were only any way that she could make amends.

Never had she thought with such tenderness of him. How strong and brave
he was; how high-minded and faithful. And he was good, in spite of all
that foolish talk about himself. And all her life he had loved her, and
he had suffered. She could see that he was still unhappy. If, then,
there was no other, and was to be no other, and if, when he came back
from the war--why not?

Why not?

She felt a sudden warmth in her cheeks, her lips parted, and as she