in a constrained, choked voice. "It's
late." But he made no move. They continued to stare at each other.

"It's turning cold," she said--because she had to say something.

The man sighed heavily. "There will be no more days like this," he said,
more to himself than to her.

"What do you mean?" She was conscious of a look in his eyes and a sound
in his voice which she had never experienced before.

"You know well what I mean!" Without warning his lean hand shot out and
seized hers with a grasp which almost made her wince. "You know well
that I love you, Judith Wynrod." The words rushed through his clenched
teeth and struck her ears like bullets. "You know it well," he added
fiercely. She stood very still, looking into eyes which smouldered
before her like banked fires.

"You're hurting my hand," she whispered. Instantly she wished she had
not said that.

His voice changed. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I wasn't thinking--of
your hand." Slowly she withdrew her fingers from his. He made no move to
retake them. For a little while he was silent. When he spoke again his
tone was different. The fierceness had departed. Instead, it was
wistful, and it struck her that he was repeating something which he had
memorised a long time ago. She had a curious feeling that he would be
saying it even if she were not there to listen. The words came slowly,
as if each one had been weighed and tested.

"I've always been a lonely chap. I never had any friends--except dogs
and drunks and beggars and bad boys. Women always laughed at me. I was
too sentimental. Men shouldn't be that, you know. After Zbysko went out
there wasn't anybody. About all I had--more than other men--was
imagination. When I went down, that made me go further than most. There
were times ... I'm not ashamed nor sorry ... they just happened--like
starvation. Some men are decent because they have to get on. I couldn't
seem to get on. For a while I gave up trying. Imagination and an empty
stomach and no one to care ... well, life never had much in it for
me--until I knew you. You were the first good woman who had ever
remembered me from one day to another. I fancied ... I mattered to you.
I liked to think that I was a part of your life--even such a small part.
It was gratitude at first. Then it grew and grew until--you see what a
curse imagination can be! If I'd been an ordinary, sensible person, I'd
never have let myself go. But I dallied with the idea. I gave myself