“Wade, again! I can’t see that it matters so much, even to him. How was I to guess that it would hurt a simple-minded old dreamer of that sort?”
“Have you been to see him since?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
The direct query had the stunning force of accusation. “You’re right,” he said dully. “I knew all the time it was a rotten thing to do, only I would n’t face it. And I’ve kept away from the Boot & Shoe Infirmary because I was afraid to go there. It’s curious,” he added, in a flat, detached manner of speech, “how the little things of life—the things you think are little—wreck the whole business for you, when it’s too late to do anything.”
“Jem!” gasped the girl. “I cannot bear to hear you talk so. It—it is unlike you. It hurts me.”
“I don’t want to hurt you, dear, Heaven knows. I only want to get this clear. You—you think I’m unfit to be—that I’m untrustworthy. Is that it?”
“Am I being very cruel?” she whispered.
“You’ve answered. It’s the truth that’s cruel, not you.”
“I must trust. Absolutely. Or—there is nothing.”