And yet with all this I had also the strangest impulse to get up, there in the dark, to walk across the room, to put my hand on his shoulder and to ask him about her.

What would he do?
He'd refuse to speak, I suppose.

I should only get insulted--and yet....

He must be thinking of her--all the time just as I am.

He must _want_ to talk of her and I know her better than any one else did.