"John!"
"Well, it's true."
"But you could not expect—"
"I expect nothing!" cried he, again striking his clenched hand upon the table. "Here is my world. Oh, well, you know now if I ever swear, and why."
Her lip trembled. "I never knew you did," said she. "John, tell me, have you ever spoken to her?"
"Good God! no, never. How could I? What have I to offer a girl like her? Who am I? What am I?"
She caught his head in her arms and drew his face down to her bosom.
"There, there," said she. "There, there, now."
But presently he broke from her, and swung out into the room, erect and active once more, a sudden triumph in his carriage, a brighter glance in the eye for a time grown dull.
"Pshaw! Here," said he, "here I am, pitying myself! That isn't a good thing for a man to do. A man oughtn't to complain. He ought to take his medicine."
"Look," he cried, coming to her again, "maybe the world is just loving me, that's all, and doesn't know. Maybe it's the same as it was when I scratched my face on your breast-pin when I was a baby, when your arms were around my neck. You did not mean it. Maybe life does not mean it. Maybe it's just loving us all the time.