Not only was there this to fill her heart, but remorse, the tenderest a woman may know, it seems to me--remorse for undeserved suspicion.
In a setting less prosaic than Little Arcady, where events might be of a story-fitness, that lover would have been alive by a happy chance, estranged by the misunderstanding but splendidly faithful, and I should have been helper and interested witness to an ideal reconciliation; thereafter to play out my game with a full heart, though with an exterior placidly unconcerned.

But with us events halt always a little short of true romance.

They are unexcitingly usual.
I would have to play out my game full heartedly, nursing my powers of belief back to their one-time vigor; nothing would occur to ease my lot--not even an occasion to pretend that I gave my blessing to a reunited and happy pair.

Miss Kate could go on believing.

Unwittingly I had given her the stuff for belief.