When the workers had danced themselves out of sight, Archie saw that Norah was crying. His awkwardness returned. 'Don't cry,' he said, 'it's done now; we can't help it.' He searched his mind for comforting phrases.
'I wouldn't have gone,' she said like a child, 'if I'd known.'
What could he say? Why had she insisted on this useless laceration?
'I thought you didn't care,' she repeated again and again.
He felt that this was unendurable. All his energy was needed for action. Emotion might complete the harm that fever had begun. Norah too must spare herself. He took a tug at the strait waistcoat of stoicism he had condemned himself to wear, remarking dispassionately that he must go back to the work. Many more logs should have been transported by now.
But Norah's weakness had been momentary, and her courage reasserted itself. 'Wait!' she said, 'I haven't told you what I came to say.'
How could she allude to what had happened without hurting him? How could she tell him it was over without promising more than she could perform? The phrases formed in her mind. She rejected each in turn.
'I'm giving Dick up!' That sounded as if she grudged a sacrifice.
'Take me back!' held out hopes she could not justify.
'I've left Dick'—she might be a kept woman.