Lansdale is constrained to say "Yes," wishing it were otherwise.
Jeffard refills his pipe and fishes for another live coal in the fire-fringe. The g-r-r-rh of the grazing horses comes from the near-by glade, and again the silence begins to grow. Suddenly he says: "Let's drop it, Lansdale, and talk about something else."
"No, go on; nothing you can say will efface the brotherly fact."
"Very well,—if you will have it. You said you were inclined to question my motive. It was more than questionable; it was frankly selfish."
"Selfish? You'll have to spell it out large for me. From my point of view it seems rather the other way about. What had you to gain by saddling yourself with the care of a sick man?"
"I can't put it in words—not without laying myself open to the charge of playing to the gallery. But let me state a fact and ask a question. A year ago you thought it was all up with you, and you didn't seem to care much. A few months later I found you fighting for your life like a shipwrecked sailor with land in sight. What did it?"
That the lava-crust of reserve is altogether molten is evinced in Lansdale's straightforward reply.
"Love,—love for a woman. I think you must have known that."
"I did. That was why you were making the desperate fight for life; and that is why we are here to-night, you and I. I love the woman, too."
Lansdale shakes his head slowly, and an ineffable smile is Jeffard's reward.