She surprised me by saying, as if quite casually, “I don’t suppose that in the end it’s the truth or the untruth of the argument that would weigh with me.”
My heart gave a thump.
“Then what would weigh with you?”
She was standing with her back to the rail, the great white star behind her. As if to emphasize the minute of suspense the engines gradually stopped, while the ship rocked gently on the tide. The lights on shore were more complex now, lights above lights, lights back of lights, with the profusion of seaboard towns even in November. The murmur of voices and the click of heels grew expectant as well as joyous.
When she spoke at last it was with breast heaving and eyes downcast. Her words came out staccatowise, as if each made its separate effort to keep itself back.
“What would weigh with me? I—I don’t know.”
“Does that mean,” I demanded, sharply, “that you might back me up?”
I could barely catch her words.
“It means first of all that—that I’m awfully weak.”