up
to it. And then it got too strong for me. I don't know why I burst out
like this to-day. I should have kept it to myself. There was no need
for you to know. I was a fool ... oh, a dreadful fool!" He sighed
heavily and was silent.

"I never dreamed...." she breathed.

"That's not true," he said gravely. "You thought of it often. You're too
wise not to. I could see it in your eyes. You didn't want to--you had
to. You're a woman."

"Mr. Good, I can't tell you how much this means to me. I do care for
you ... very much--more--more--" She hesitated and stopped. The
inadequacy and stiffness of her words were distressingly evident. Even
in the dusk she could see the dull pain in his eyes. They had the
expression of some wounded, helpless animal.

"Please don't," he begged. "I understand. When I hurt your hand ... that
was enough. It's quite impossible, of course." Never, to the end of her
days, would she forget the dreary hopelessness in his voice, the bent
shoulders, the hand uplifted in deprecation. She wanted to throw her
arms about him, as she would with Roger. Something held her--she could
not move. The tears blinded her....

"But you didn't finish," he shot at her suddenly. "More--more--than any
other man ... was that what you were going to say?"

And when she made no reply, he laughed, a little bitterly, a little
tenderly--quite mirthlessly.

"I thought not. Well ... I used to hate him. I used to hate him very
much--for other reasons, too. But he's not the man now that he was. He's
been through the fire. He's better metal now. He's tempered. The dross
is gone. He's not worthy of you ... who is?"

Suddenly Judith's tongue was loosed. "You don't understand," she cried,
with an earnestness of which there could be no question. "There is no
other man. I care for you ... very much. Oh, I do--I do...."

"Then ... would you marry me--will _you_?" There was a subtle note of
irony in his voice which was not lost upon her. But she did not reply
and he too was silent for a moment. When he spoke again the irony was
less subtle.

"You care enough to marry me if--if ... things were different?"

"I don't understand." Her voice sounded very far away, as if it did not
belong to her at all.

"Oh, yes, you do, Judith Wynrod," he said harshly, like a magistrate
passing sentence. She thought she had never heard a voice so cold and
terrible, so cruelly impersonal. But, without warning, it changed, and
she knew that she had n