"It made me wild when I discovered it, because I saw it was mine. Nothing had ever been mine before. As it comes nearer and nearer, it looks pretty grim to me. But it's mine, still. When men used to go out to fight, they must have said a good many times, 'This is a nasty situation, but it's my quarrel.' And this is mine."
She felt her loneliness. At once it seemed that she had not yet known the real man. Their play at friendship, sympathy,—what was it?—had been only play. Like all men, he could bring the woman a flower, a crown even, "a rosy wreath," but the roses must wither while he chose his sword. She could not speak.
"What is it, playmate?" he asked presently. It was the old kindly voice.
"I must go back. I'm cold."
"Cold! It's warm to-night."
"Good-night."
He followed her.
"I did it. I chilled you somehow. Forgive me."
She could not speak, and he was at her side.
"I know. There are things that can't be talked about. They sound like twaddle. These things I've told you—they're well enough to think about. They can't be said. You're disappointed in me!"