Julie raised her eyes and looked straight up at him. “I never will,” she promised.
He drew a free breath. He seemed to have been waiting for her to say this. “I didn’t b’lieve you would,” he said.
“I never will,” she answered faithfully again, as though making a solemn compact with him.
She saw his hands that clutched the back of the chair tremble slightly, and a faint hot moisture broke out upon his forehead. Then he stooped closer to her, daring all.
“She said—my wife said—that was just what I’d do in camp.”
“You wouldn’t,” she cried sharply. “You wouldn’t! I know you wouldn’t.”
“But—but I might,” he faltered, moistening his lips. “It’s—it’s just what I might do.”
“You would not!” Julie repeated violently, clutching her knitting so tight that one of the bone needles snapped in two.
“She said I would,” he persisted. “And then she went off to the show. I was all alone. I got to studyin’ about it. I thought—I thought—”
“I know,” she interjected quickly. “I know, I understand how it is.”