"Don't say any more, please," Jean begged.
But the pity in her voice fanned the rage in Philip.
"You're successful in your little fiddling two-by-four job, but if you died to-night, the silly interfering would go on. You haven't got a spot in the whole world that really belongs to you. You've got nothing. Nothing at all——"
Jean shivered. "Don't," she whispered pitifully, "oh don't, please don't!"
Suddenly tears filled Philip's eyes. "I want you so; I want you so. It isn't enough, is it? It's only outside, isn't it, sometimes, now when it thunders, and the earth smells? I'm not worthy of you, Jean. You're the most wonderful thing God ever made. You want it too, don't you, something near and close, the thing in the thunder and the sweet earth, and I can give you that, Jean, even if you can't—give so much to me. But just tolerate me, Jean, I will ask so little, just be kind and——"
The tears ran in tiny globules down Philip's cheeks.
Jean shivered with nausea, and stepped back. Philip's hand clenched and his face became evil in its baffled longing.
"You——" His voice broke in a squeak.
Jean raised her head and looked with white, set face at him. Then she made a motion as if to pass and leave him standing there, but he stepped before her.
"You fool, you poor blind fool. You can draw men now," in his pain his eyes clung to her body, "but in a few years you won't. I'm coarse. I know it. You're so damned honest, but you don't like the truth any better than any one else. For a few years you'll be a woman yet and then—you'll be hungry and furtive like—like—Catherine."