"I have given him everything—this very day—that is why I sent for you. There must be something in what you say—a spirit in me responds to you—oh, Ambrose, I love him!"
She was sobbing against the stained and raveled coat. There was a scent of some pungent oil—turpentine. But he did not speak. His big hand touched her head lightly, smoothing her hair.
"You think I'm—what do you think I am?" she asked.
"You know," he patted her shoulder gently. "I suppose you are wondering what I am feeling? I will tell you this—I am not hurt. I can't be hurt, for you have lost nothing which I prize. If you were different, you wouldn't like me to say that."
He took her face between his rough hands and looked into her eyes. "How very beautiful it is!" he said.
She shut her eyes tight to keep back the tears.
"I said I wouldn't see you again. Perhaps I won't—but if you want me send for me."
She dried her eyes. "I'm a weakling—I wish I was wicked and didn't care—I don't care, really. What has happened is—" she shrugged, "it is the discovery of my own rottenness that has shocked me—nearly driven me mad. You are going now, Ambrose—that is so lovely in you—you even know when to go!"
She laughed nervously and laid her two hands on his shoulder. She did not want to kiss or be kissed. And she knew that he felt as she did.
"Come to me when I want you—I shall be busy inventing lies for the next few days. Good-bye, Ambrose." When he had gone, she realized that no man's name had been mentioned. Perhaps he knew.