"Oh, no, we're not. Besides, what does it matter? I simply had to speak to you—and you know what happened the other morning. Mornings are the worst of all for people seeing you."
"But not for what they think of seeing you."
"Oh! what do I care what they think?" cried the wife of the man beside me. "I'm far past that. It's you men who keep on thinking and thinking of what other people are going to think!"
"We sometimes have to think for two," said Uvo—just a little less steadily, to my ear.
"You don't see that I'm absolutely desperate, mewed up with a man who doesn't care a rap for me!"
"I should make him care."
"That shows all you care!" she retorted, passionately.
And then I felt that he was standing over her; there was something in the altered pose of the head near mine, something that took my eyes from the moonlit hands, and again gave me as vivid a picture as though the wall were down.
"It's no use going back on all that," said Uvo, and it was harder to hear him now. "I don't want to say rotten things. You know well enough what I feel. If I felt a bit less, it would be different. It's just because we've been the kind of pals we have been ... my dear ... my dear!... that we mustn't go and spoil it now."
The low voice trembled, but now hers was lower still, and I at least lost most of her answer ... "if you really cared for me ... to take me away from a man who never did!" That much I heard, and this: "But you're no better! You don't know what it is to—care!"