Monte caught the man by the arms and forced him again into his chair.
"Steady," he warned.
Exhausted by his exertion, Hamilton sat there panting for breath, his eyes burning into Covington's.
"What I meant," said Monte, "was, do you love her with—with an honest-to-God love?"
When Hamilton answered this time, Covington saw what Marjory meant when she wondered how Hamilton could look like a white-robed choir-boy as he sang to her. He had grown suddenly calm, and when he spoke the red light in his eyes had turned to white.
"It's with all there is in me, Covington," he said.
The pity of it was, of course, that so little was left in him—that so much had been wasted, so much soiled, in the last few years. The wonder was that so much was left.
As Monte looked down at the man, he felt his own heart beating faster. He felt several other things that left him none too comfortable. Again that curious interest that made him want to listen, that held him with a weird fascination.
"Tell me about it," said Covington.
Hamilton sat up with a start. He faced Covington as if searching his soul.