"It's funny, isn't it," Good was saying in a matter-of-fact tone, "that the trifles—things we really don't value at all—should keep people from the one thing that counts. Queer world, this. But it's one of the rules of the game. It's silly to complain. As well mock the stars." His voice broke miserably and he covered his face with his hands. As she stared miserably at the stooped, shabby figure of the truest friend she had ever known, she felt very small and mean and ineffective, wishing that she might say something which would comfort him, knowing that anything she could say would hurt him more than silence. She was shamed by her impotency. But when she thought of the bright camaraderie which had been between them, and would be no more, she was angry. Why had he spoiled it all? Why had he not let things be? She was aroused from her reverie by the sound of his desolate voice.
"Truly, it is the last day. Tears ... and then ice." He paused. "It will rain presently, I think—with snow," he added quite calmly.
Almost as he spoke the rain began. They parted hurriedly. There was a quick hand-shake, a murmured word, and she was fleeing from him with the print of his lips still hot on her fingers.
It was an utterly wretched woman who sat staring for hours afterward at the blank wall before her. And it was a hopeless, beaten man who trudged through the dripping trees toward the station. Fate had had its pleasure with both. Tired of the sport, it had crushed them like eggshells.
CHAPTER XII
ONLY A WOMAN
The next day Judith returned to the city. Winter had arrived in earnest and there were other reasons why Braeburn had become impossible. She drove to the station in a storm of blinding sleet, while the wind, howling through trees suddenly become gaunt, seemed to shriek and gibber with derision at her going.
But the city house had its memories, too. Recollections clustered everywhere, mocking her. She made up her mind impulsively that she would go to Florida. It was out of season of course, but it would be the more restful for that. She felt very tired. She even consulted time tables.
But one afternoon, when she was in her motor, she saw Imrie. She followed him with her eyes until he disappeared. She had not seen him for months, though she knew in a vague sort of way, what he was doing. He was perfectly justified, of course, in neglecting her. She had surely done nothing to encourage his attentions. In fact she had done not a little to discourage them completely. Nevertheless his indifference piqued her. She decided not to go to Florida,—at least not until January.