She had lost all feeling of the personality of Lavery. It was like speaking out to the night-wind and the starlight. She had spoken the last sentences in a rush, passionately, and in her voice was the tremor of a sob. But she compressed her lips sharply, and sat silent. Lavery took her hand, and her fingers closed on his desperately.... All she cared for just then was not to cry.
"Well, it's true, we can't live without it," muttered Lavery. "You see, we lose faith in ourselves, without it—we feel we've been wrong, and we have been wrong—that's the sign.... Then if we can't get it back we take to dope—like me."
She heard what he said, but she did not answer. She was absorbed in the relief of her emotion, her confession, and the strange feeling of kinship with him, with this person she—didn't like. For she did not like him any better than before, only it didn't seem to matter now. What mattered was not to be entirely alone.
She was comforted, and keeping hold of his hand, she grew calmer, and breathed a deep sigh. Then she noticed that Lavery was shivering.
"Why, you'll catch your death of cold," she said, and got up.
They walked back silently to the house. In the hall he put out his hand to her again and said anxiously:
"Look here now, you won't hate me more for this, will you? That wouldn't be fair."
"No!" she said with energy, smiling. "Not now.... I would, not long ago—but now I wouldn't be so mean as that."
"Well, that's good," he said wanly.