“George”—her voice was very soft—“it hurts me to hurt you—but I’d have to lie to you if I said there was a way. There can’t be—ever.”
“Is there any—any new reason?” he asked.
For a moment, she hesitated in silence, and the man bent forward.
“I shouldn’t have asked that, Duska—I don’t ask it,” he hastened to amend. “Whether there is a new reason or just all the old ones, is there any way I can help—any way, leaving myself out of it, of course?”
Again, she shook her head.
“I guess there’s no way anyone can help,” she said.
Back at the cabin, Steele found his guest moodily pacing the verandah. The glow of his pipe bowl was a point of red against the black. The Kentuckian dropped into a chair, and for a time neither spoke.
At last, Steele said slowly:
“Bob, I have just asked Duska if I had a chance.”
The other man wheeled in astonishment. Steele had indeed maintained his Platonic pose so well that the other had not suspected the fire under what he believed to be an extinct crater. His own feeling had been the one thing he had not confided. They had never spoken to each other of Duska in terms of love.