"Why didn't you?" asked Good quietly.
"Well—there was Molly. I knew it was good-bye Roger if I did. If there's one thing she hates, it's a yellow streak. Why, she—"
"That wasn't the only reason, was it?" Good's eyes were very bright and keen. For a moment Roger looked puzzled. Then he hung his head and smiled.
"No—it wasn't. I—oh, hang it—I don't want to seem a conceited ass—but—well—I'm not much for the yellow myself. I've never been a quitter in useless things—and—and—well, I just couldn't quit on this job. I just had to go through with it. Don't you understand?"
"Yes—I understand." Good smiled, very tenderly.
"There's one thing more. I...." Roger hesitated, and reddened slightly. "I don't know just how to put it into words, but I want to tell you that I feel I owe Molly and oh—everything—to you. I—oh, hang it—I—I...." He stammered and was silent, but he gripped Good's hand again and held it fast.
The older man's eyes winked with suspicious rapidity, and he swallowed several times before he spoke. When he did there was a little tremble in his voice.
"We Anglo-Saxons," he began. Then his voice broke, and he added in a hurried whisper, "We can't talk—such fools...."
But as they held each other's hands and looked into each other's eyes, both knew that the other understood.
Then Furniss and the Japanese photographer came in, and the tension snapped. Roger, who shared Good's dislike for the reporter, having even in private characterised him as a "buzzard," quickly withdrew, and Good was left to complete the details of the evening's work.