"We're friends, aren't we, Clara?" he asked, after a long pause.
"Sure," said Miss Greeby, nodding heartily. "Does it need putting into words?"
"I suppose not, but what I mean is that we are pals." He used the word which he knew most appealed to her masculine affectations.
"Sure," said Miss Greeby again, and once more heartily. "Real, honest pals. I never believed in that stuff about the impossibility of a man and woman being pals unless there's love rubbish about the business. At one time, Lambert, I don't deny but what I had a feeling of that sort for you."
"And now?" questioned the young man with an uneasy smile.
"Now it's gone, or rather my love has become affection, and that's quite a different thing, old fellow. I want to see you happy, and you aren't now. I daresay you're still crying for the moon. Eh?" she looked at him sharply.
"You asked me that before when you came here," said Lambert, slowly. "And I refused to answer. I can answer now. The moon is quite beyond my reach, so I have dried my tears."
Miss Greeby, who was lighting a cigarette, threw away the match and stared hard at his haggard face. "Well, I didn't expect to hear that, now we know how the moon—"
"Call things by their right name," interrupted Lambert, sharply. "Agnes is now a widow, if that's what you mean."
"It is, if you call Agnes a thing. Of course, you'll marry her since the barrier has been removed?"