“I've often wondered,” said Nannie.
He gave one look of blank amazement and then dropped his hands in dismay.
“Well, I suppose you were more interesting then than you are now,” Nannie went on comfortingly.
“I hope so,” he said humbly, “but we neither of us knew the other. Our tastes were not formed; our characters were not matured. I grew one way, she grew another; now we care for entirely different things, and as a result we are walking through life together and each is utterly alone.”
He was looking off over the big lake now. He had forgotten the annoyances and unpleasant surprises of their conversation. He no longer saw Nannie. A dreary never-ending waste was all that held his mental vision.
Nannie's voice recalled him.
“That's no excuse,” she insisted.
He started like a man rudely awakened.
“Who thought of making excuses?” he said rather gruffly.
But down in his heart lay the testimony that convicted him. By this it was proven that he had for thirteen years been excusing himself.