"It seems so dreadful—but how was I to know?"

"You couldn't have known."

"Oh, poor little Laura Lou! I shall never forgive myself—but you must say that you forgive me!"

It was curious: he had to reason with her as if she were a child. It was almost as if he were reasoning with Laura Lou. He felt himself calling upon the same sort of patience—as if he were sitting down on the floor to comfort a child that had hurt itself… . And when at last he drew her arm through his and walked beside her in the darkness to the corner where she had left her motor, he wondered if at crucial moments the same veil of unreality would always fall between himself and the soul nearest him, if the creator of imaginary beings must always feel alone among the real ones.