"Why?"
"You can't stay away from the house. Something might happen."
"Croak! Croak!"
He passed his hand impatiently over his face. "I'm a fool!" he exclaimed. "I must learn to be content with what I have—when it's so much—so vastly more than I ever dared hope—or—" He stared out into the darkness. The ducks among the reeds close inshore were quacking discontented forebodings of rain. "I trifle with my good fortune."
"What's the matter, dear?" she asked, her cheek against his.
"Nothing. Nothing."
"What have you been thinking while I was away? ... Look at me, Basil."
"It seems to me I can't ever look—anyone in the face again."
She understood who "anyone" was. She pressed closer to him, said caressingly: "Except me. You can always look at me, and I at you. And what more do we want?"
He did not echo her tender reckless laugh, with its threat of a storm of hysterical tears. "You have good excuse for what you've done. But there's no excuse for me."