“Well?” she said, still looking at the spots.
“Now you know the man I spoke of.”
Yes, it was a desperate voice and hard in its desperation.
“You mean that you are the man?”
Still she did not look up. After a pause she heard him say:
“Yes, that I am the man.”
Then she looked up. His face was scarlet, like a face flushed with guilt. His eyes met hers with a staring glance, yet they were furtive. His hands were clenched on his knees. When she looked at him he began to smile.
“Viola,” he said, “Viola.”
He unclenched his hands and put them out towards her, as if to take her hands. She did not move.
“Poor Robin!” she said.