The storm of emotion which had rocked them, had left them exhausted. They had said so much without words; the eloquence of language seemed inadequate. Each thought as it rose to their lips seemed too trifling for utterance.
As they turned from the wood into the road, she began to whistle softly. He listened. Memory set the tune to words:
“So, honey, jest play in your own backyard,
Don’t mind what dem white chiles say.”
“I can’t bear it.”
She glanced at him sidelong. “Now, old dear, h’if I wants ter whistle, why shouldn’t I?”
“It’s as though you were telling me, I don’t want you.’ You sang it in the Park that night.”
“But she doesn’t want him, perhaps. There! But she does a little. Does that make him feel better? Come, let’s be sensible. You don’t recommend love by getting tragic. Take my arm and stop tickling my hand. I’m going to ask you a question.—Hasn’t there ever been another girl?”
“Never, upon my——”
“You needn’t be so fierce in denying. I didn’t ask you whether you’d killed anybody.”