"Nor yet you ain't keepin' company with her?"
"No-o!" cried Geoffrey, wincing.
"Ain't you asked her?"
"No! please don't—"
"Why not?" demanded Mr. Butters, with ample severity.
Geoffrey tried to laugh, and failed. "I—I can't talk about these things, Mr. Butters."
"Don't you want her?" the old man went on, pitilessly. Geoffrey looked up angrily; looked up, and met a look so kind and true and simple, that his anger died, still-born.
"Yes!" he said. "God knows I do. But you are wholly mistaken in thinking—that is—she wouldn't have me."
"I expect she would!" said Ithuriel Butters. "I expect that is jest what she would have. I see her when you was layin' there, all stove up; you might have be'n barrel-staves, the way you looked. I see her face, and I don't need to see no more."
Geoffrey tried to say something about kindness and womanly pity, but the strong old voice bore him down.