"That wasn't anything," replied she. "You had already done a thousand times more than you needed to do."
His hand wandered along the cover in her direction. She touched it. Their hands clasped.
"I lied about where I got the money yesterday. I didn't work. I begged. Three of us—from the saloon they call the Owl's Chute—two Yale men—one of them had been a judge—and I. We've been begging for a week. We were going out on the road in a few days—to rob. Then—I saw you—in that old women's dance hall—the Venusberg, they call it."
"You've come down here for me, Rod. You'll take me back?
You'll save me from the Venusberg?"
"I couldn't save anybody. Susie, at bottom I'm N. G. I always was—and I knew it. Weak—vain. But you! If you hadn't been a woman—and such a sweet, considerate one you'd have never got down here."
"Such a fool," corrected Susan. "But, once I get up, I'll not be so again. I'll fight under the rules, instead of acting in the silly way they teach us as children."
"Don't say those hard things, Susie!"
"Aren't they true?"
"Yes, but I can't bear to hear them from a woman. . . . I told you that you hadn't changed. But after I'd looked at you a while I saw that you have. You've got a terrible look in your eyes—wonderful and terrible. You had something of that look as a child—the first time I saw you."
"The day after my marriage," said the girl, tearing her face away.