They walked on and on.
“Say something,” Ruth begged. “Tell me something about yourself. Just this once. Just to-day.”
“There’s little good to be told about myself,” he said into the wind.
“Whether it’s good or not, I’d like to know it.”
“But what?”
“Anything.”
“I must think. I have a poor memory for my own experiences.” But even as he spoke there emerged the memory of a night which he had thought quite faded. What had happened then seemed menacing now, and seemed in some mysterious way related to Ruth; and the need of confession came upon him like hunger.
“Don’t search in your mind,” said Ruth. “Tell what happens to occur to you.”
He walked more slowly. Poor in words as he was, he strove first to gather the bare facts in his mind.
Ruth smiled and urged him. “Just start. The first word is the hardest.”