Jocelyn stopped too, looking anxiously into his face; it was set and hard. He leant against the parapet of the bridge, and his profile showed clear-cut through the dusk. One hand gripped the stone coping; she put her own gently upon it. His tall figure quivered from head to foot at the touch, but he kept his eyes away from her face. Presently he began to speak in a measured, expressionless voice.
“Nice place for the end of things, isn’t it?” he said, pointing down the precipitous drop to the dim rocks below. “I’ve known three fellows who ended there—very good chaps; one wouldn’t choose it oneself, it can’t be pretty;” and he laughed shortly.
“Don’t, dear!” said Jocelyn, and her hand tightened on his.
His face worked, and he turned to her.
“Please take your hand away!”
She drew it away quickly, trembling.
“My God!” he said. “Are you made of ice, Jocelyn? Don’t you know what I endure by day and night? Don’t you know what a man’s love is—Great Heaven! how should you? You can’t know how it tears and tortures me—” he broke off.
Each word seemed torn from him, and each had a separate, intense value in the still air. He looked down again at the shadowy rocks, then he said—
“I am sorry—there—has—been—a big—mistake—I’m not man enough; come, dear, let’s go on.”
They moved silently down the deserted road a long way. The growing darkness hid their features from each other. Now they passed through a thick grove of olives that stretched below the road, in banks, to the top of the cliff.