She seemed not to hear him. "How can I tell you that—and about how sorry I am—when all the time it seems that I can think only of—something else!"
"You are speaking of the reformatory," he said, with bracing directness.
There followed a strained silence.
"Oh," broke from her—"how could you bear to do it?"
"Don't you see that we cannot possibly discuss it? It is a question of one's honor—isn't it? It is impossible that such a thing could be argued about."
"But—surely you have something to say—some explanation to make! Tell me. You will not find me—a hard judge."
"I'm sorry," he said brusquely, "but I can make no explanation."
She was conscious that he stood beside her on the hearth-rug. Though her face was lowered and turned from him, the eye of her mind held perfectly the presentment of his face, and she knew that more than age had gone over it since she had seen it last. Had any other man in the world but West been in the balance, she felt that, despite his own words, she could no longer believe him guilty. And even as it was—how could that conceivably be the face of a man who—
"Won't you shake hands?"
Turning, she gave him briefly the tips of fingers cold as ice. As their hands touched, a sudden tragic sense overwhelmed him that here was a farewell indeed. The light contact set him shaking; and for a moment his iron self-control, which covered torments she never guessed at, almost forsook him.