"In a way," he answered.
"Will you tell me more about it?" she asked eagerly.
"It's not very interesting," he laughed. "It was mostly a grind—just a plain, unceasing grind. It was n't very exciting—just getting any old job I could and then studying what time was left."
"And growing stronger every day—feeling your increasing power!"
"And my hunger, too, sometimes."
He tried to make light of it because he didn't wish her to become so serious over it. He did n't like playing the part of hero.
"You did n't have enough to eat?" she asked in astonishment.
"You should have seen me watch Barstow's cake-box."
He told her the story, making it as humorous as he could. But when he had finished, she wasn't laughing. For a moment his impulse was to lay before her the whole story—the bitter climax, the ashen climax, which lately he had thought so beautiful. She had said that nothing in the past would matter—but this was of the future, too. Even if she ought to know, he had no right to force upon her the burden of what was to come. He found now that he had even cut himself off from the privilege of being utterly honest with her. To tell her the whole truth might be to destroy his usefulness to her. She might then scorn his help. He must not allow that. Nothing could justify that.
"You are looking very serious," she commented.