'Don't! Please!'
'Well—good-night. Or good-morning.'
She gave him her hand. He took it. It gripped his firmly, lingeringly. He returned the pressure; coloured; gripped her hand hotly; moved toward her, then sprang away and dropped her hand.
'Why—Henry!'
'I'm sorry. I don't know what's the matter with me. I was looking at that star——'
'I saw you looking at it.'
'I was thinking how white it was. And bright. And so far away. As if there wasn't any use trying to reach it. And then—oh, I don't know—Mr Henderson made me blue, the way he looked to-night. And Humphrey and Mildred—the awful fix they're in. And you and me—I just can't tell you!'
'You're telling me plainly enough,' she said wearily.
'Do you ever hate, yourself?'
She didn't answer this. Or look up.