"I shan't try—though it's the gospel truth—and you'll find it out some day."
"When?"
"Oh, when the time comes, that's all."
"You speak in riddles," she said, "and I always hated guessing."
Then she held out her hand with a pleasant, conventional smile.
"I am grateful to you in spite of everything," she said; "and now
good-by."
His arms hung at his side. "No, I won't shake hands," he answered. "What's the use?"
"As you please—only, it's the usual thing at parting."
"All the same, I won't do it," he said stubbornly. "My hands are not clean." He held them out, soiled with earth and the stains from the tobacco.
For an instant her eyes dwelt upon him very kindly.
"Oh, I shan't mind the traces of honest toil," she said; but as he still hung back, she gave a friendly nod and went quickly homeward along the road. As her figure vanished among the trees, a great bitterness oppressed him, and, picking up his knife, he went back doggedly to his work.
In the kitchen, when he returned to dinner some hours later, he found Cynthia squinting heavily over the torn coat.