"What do you mean?" She was conscious of a look in his eyes and a sound in his voice which she had never experienced before.
"You know well what I mean!" Without warning his lean hand shot out and seized hers with a grasp which almost made her wince. "You know well that I love you, Judith Wynrod." The words rushed through his clenched teeth and struck her ears like bullets. "You know it well," he added fiercely. She stood very still, looking into eyes which smouldered before her like banked fires.
"You're hurting my hand," she whispered. Instantly she wished she had not said that.
His voice changed. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I wasn't thinking—of your hand." Slowly she withdrew her fingers from his. He made no move to retake them. For a little while he was silent. When he spoke again his tone was different. The fierceness had departed. Instead, it was wistful, and it struck her that he was repeating something which he had memorised a long time ago. She had a curious feeling that he would be saying it even if she were not there to listen. The words came slowly, as if each one had been weighed and tested.
"I've always been a lonely chap. I never had any friends—except dogs and drunks and beggars and bad boys. Women always laughed at me. I was too sentimental. Men shouldn't be that, you know. After Zbysko went out there wasn't anybody. About all I had—more than other men—was imagination. When I went down, that made me go further than most. There were times ... I'm not ashamed nor sorry ... they just happened—like starvation. Some men are decent because they have to get on. I couldn't seem to get on. For a while I gave up trying. Imagination and an empty stomach and no one to care ... well, life never had much in it for me—until I knew you. You were the first good woman who had ever remembered me from one day to another. I fancied ... I mattered to you. I liked to think that I was a part of your life—even such a small part. It was gratitude at first. Then it grew and grew until—you see what a curse imagination can be! If I'd been an ordinary, sensible person, I'd never have let myself go. But I dallied with the idea. I gave myself up to it. And then it got too strong for me. I don't know why I burst out like this to-day. I should have kept it to myself. There was no need for you to know. I was a fool ... oh, a dreadful fool!" He sighed heavily and was silent.
"I never dreamed...." she breathed.
"That's not true," he said gravely. "You thought of it often. You're too wise not to. I could see it in your eyes. You didn't want to—you had to. You're a woman."
"Mr. Good, I can't tell you how much this means to me. I do care for you ... very much—more—more—" She hesitated and stopped. The inadequacy and stiffness of her words were distressingly evident. Even in the dusk she could see the dull pain in his eyes. They had the expression of some wounded, helpless animal.
"Please don't," he begged. "I understand. When I hurt your hand ... that was enough. It's quite impossible, of course." Never, to the end of her days, would she forget the dreary hopelessness in his voice, the bent shoulders, the hand uplifted in deprecation. She wanted to throw her arms about him, as she would with Roger. Something held her—she could not move. The tears blinded her....
"But you didn't finish," he shot at her suddenly. "More—more—than any other man ... was that what you were going to say?"