Without a word, she folded her work and gave it to him, and when he had put it down he knelt beside her, holding the arms of the chair so that he fenced her in.
"You don't understand, you can't understand that night's work," he said. "I want to tell you. You—you were like an angel coming down into the racket. You took away my strength. I wanted you. I forgot about Miriam. If I'd only known it, I'd been forgetting her every day when I saw you walking with the dog. You think I was just a beast, but I tell you—"
"I don't think that. I can't explain unless you give me room. Thank you. You were a beast with Miriam, not with me."
He sat stiffly on his chair and murmured, "That's just it. And now, you see—"
"Yes, I do."
"But you don't like me."
"I might."
"You shall, by God!" He seemed to smoulder.
"I hope so," she said quietly, and damped the glow.
"You'll let me come here every night and sit with you?"