"Of what that man was saying of David."
There was a silence. He lay motionless, his trouble coming back upon him. He wished that he might dare to impose upon her a silence on that one subject. David, given a place in her mind, would sit at every feast, walk beside them, lie between them in their marriage bed.
"Why do you think of him?" he asked.
"Because—" her tone showed surprise. "It's natural, isn't it? Don't you? I'm sure you do. I do often, much oftener than you think. I'm always hoping that he'll come."
"You never loved him," he said, in a voice from which all spring was gone.
"No, but he was my friend, and I would like to keep him so for always. I think of his kindness, his gentleness, all the good part of him before the trail broke him down. And, I think, too, how cruel I was to him."
The darkness hid her face, but her voice told that she, too, had her little load of guilt where David was concerned.
The man moved uneasily.
"That's foolishness. You only told the truth. If it was cruel, that's not your affair."
"He loved me. A woman doesn't forget that."