At first she made no reply, and her gaze remained remote; then, turning:
"Was he your friend?" she asked wistfully.
"I think he meant to be."
"You quarrelled—down there—in the South"—she made a vague gesture toward the gray horizon. "Do you remember that night, Mr. Hamil?"
"Yes."
"Did you ever become friends again?"
"No.... I think he meant to be.... The fault was probably mine. I misunderstood."
She said: "I know he cared a great deal for you."
The man was silent.
She turned directly toward him, pale, clear-eyed, and in the poise of her head a faint touch of pride.