He said: "Then you believe in them."
"How can I help it? Look at me! Look at me here, in full light—asking protection of you!... And I don't care! I—think I am becoming more angry than—than frightened. I think it is your kindness that has given me courage. Somehow, I feel safe with you. I am sure that I can rely on you; can't I?"
"Yes," he said miserably.
"I was very sure I could when I saw you sitting there on the platform before the milk-train came in.... I don't know how it was—I was not afraid to speak to you.... Something about you made me confident.... I said to myself, 'He is good! I know it!' And so I spoke to you."
Conscience was tearing him inwardly to shreds, as the fox tore the Spartan. How could he pose as the sort of man she believed him to be, and endure the self-contempt now almost overwhelming him?
"I—I'm not good," he blurted out, miserably.
She turned and looked at him seriously for a moment. Then, for the first time aware of his[242] arm encircling her, and her hands in his, she flushed brightly and freed herself, straightening up in her little wooden chair.
"You need not tell me that," she said. "I know you are good."
"As a m-matter of f-fact," he stammered. "I'm a scoundrel!"
"What?"