"It was there then," he went on. "But now—it's—it's heartbreaking, Susie when your face is in repose."
"I've gone through a fire that has burned up every bit of me that can burn," said she. "I've been wondering if what's left isn't strong enough to do something with. I believe so—if you'll help me."
"Help you? I—help anybody? Don't mock me, Susie."
"I don't know about anybody else," said she sweetly and gently, "but I do know about me."
"No use—too late. I've lost my nerve." He began to sob.
"It's because I'm unstrung," explained he.
"Don't think I'm a poor contemptible fool of a whiner. . . . Yes, I am a whiner! Susie, I ought to have been the woman and you the man. Weak—weak—weak!"
She turned the gas low, bent over him, kissed his brow, caressed him. "Let's do the best we can," she murmured.
He put his arm round her. "I wonder if there is any hope," he said. "No—there couldn't be."
"Let's not hope," pleaded she. "Let's just do the best we can."
"What—for instance?"