"The rest? Isn't that enough? What makes you think there's more?" she
gasped.

"I don't know what makes me. I do. Something in your manner, I
suppose. You mustn't tell me if you wish not, but I'd be able to help
you better if I knew everything. As long as you've told me so much."

There was a long stillness in the dim room; the dashing rain and the
muttering thunder were the only sounds in the world. The white dress
was motionless in the chair, vague, impersonal--he could see only the
blurred suggestion of a face above it; it got to be fantastic, a dream,
a condensation of the summer lightning and the storm-clouds;
unrealities seized the quick imagination of the man; into his fancy
came the low, buoyant voice out of key with the words.

"Yes, there's more. A love story, of course--there's always that.
Only this is more an un-love story, as far as I'm in it." She stopped
again. "I don't know why I should tell you this part."

"Don't, if you don't want to," the man answered promptly, a bit coldly.
He felt a clear distaste for this emotional business; he would much
prefer to "cut it out," as he would have expressed it to himself.

"I _do_ want to--now. I didn't mean to. But it's a relief." And it
came to him sharply that if he was to be a surgeon of souls, what
business had he to shrink from blood?

"I am here to relieve you if I can. It's what I most wish to do--for
any one," he said gently then. And the girl suddenly laughed again.