Jean nodded. Herrick covered his face hastily with his hand. He had been right then, right in his first analysis, so long ago, by the camp fires in the sandy coves. It had been in Jean always. In those silly, idealistic first weeks of their marriage, when he had been content with so little. It had been there the night he had seized and kissed her and she had pushed him away. It had been there, hidden so deep from his touch, that he had ceased to believe in its existence.
And some one else had touched it to life. He sat with his shoulders bowed, his face hidden. After a long time he said:
"You are married, then?"
His hand still hid his face. The hand, too, had coarsened and grown thick. There was black hair along the joints and the nails were ill-kept. And once Jean had liked Herrick's hands. They had held hers so surely, racing along the sands.
"No," she said quietly. "Not legally. He was married and had a child." After all, it was not much to give in atonement, this little confidence, but it was the best she had.
For a moment Herrick did not move. Then his hand came slowly down. He stared, puzzled. Amazement and finally understanding flashed across his face. Herrick leaned back in his chair and laughed aloud.
"Good Lord, Jean. You—an affair!"
Jean rose. Her knees were shaking and she was cold.
"Don't," she commanded in a whisper, and Herrick, half risen from his chair, sank back. Seeing nothing, Jean crossed the balcony, walked swiftly through the great banquet hall and down the stairs to the street.
Herrick sat where he was until the waiter came and asked him to move his table to make room for a group of long-coated merchants in gowns of silk. Then he paid the bill and went. It was night.