Corrie had turned his back to him, not in offence, but as a woman would cover her face. He answered without moving.
"It's—all right. I understand; it is—all right."
Gerard left the car, more humiliated in his own sight than he ever had been in his life. For the moment his own lack of self-control loomed larger than Corrie's, past or present.
"Corrie, I said what I did not mean," he appealed, laying his hand on the other's shoulder. "Forgive me. Don't take it like this!"
Corrie slowly turned to him.
"There isn't anything you can say to me, that I can complain of," he checked apology, quietly serious. "It is all right, of course. I—no one can understand just what it was like to hear him talk that way to me, no one can, ever. But I should not have struck him."
The expression in his eyes as they encountered Gerard's was not of remorse or shame, or resentment, was not any mingling of these, but simply of utter loneliness patiently accepted. Gerard stood back in silence, helplessly aware of having inflicted a hurt no contrition could heal.
The man was sitting up, dazed and bruised, his stupid gaze following his assailant. To him Corrie went, dragging forth a handful of paper money.
"Keep away from me," the victor cautioned with harsh dislike. "I mean it. Here, take this and go. I'm giving it to you because I knocked you down and not because of anything you claim, understand."
The man grasped the money eagerly, peering up with more admiration than sullenness.