"Jim, build it!—and see what happens."
"I cannot."
"Build it. You will not be alone and sad in it if you remember the boy and the child in the parlour. They—they will be good company—if you wish."
He rested his elbows on the table, head bent between his sea-burned hands.
"If I could only, only do something," she whispered. "The boy has merely been asleep, Jim. I have always known it. But it has taken many years for me to bring myself to this moment."
"Do you think a man can come back through such wreckage and mire—do you think he wants to come back? What do you know about it?—with your white skin and bright hair—and that child's mouth of yours—What do you know about it?"
"Once you were the oracle, Jim. May I not have my turn?"
"Yes—but what in God's name do you care?"
"Will you build?"
He looked at her dumbly, hopelessly; then his arm twitched and he relieved the wrist from the weight of his head, sitting upright, his eyes still bent on her.