“The women,” he suggested.
“No, I think they’d be too wise,” she said.
He laughed, an echo of hers; there was not much mirth between them.
“That last day I came here,” she continued, presently, with a musing air, “you might have said more than you did.”
“More?”
“Yes, more for me; something to pretend you couldn’t see me; I felt stripped.”
He smiled at the fire-dogs, remembering her dress.
“I didn’t know it,” he said.
“No, a man never does. Some men, you know, lie to a woman to be rid of her, lie about their love and about their life; say it’s heartbreaking, but impossible; one forgives that—it’s craven but it’s kind; but one can’t forgive the men who lie by saying nothing, merely to be rid of her the sooner, when she might go comforted, and only a little slower, by just one whisper of the love they have.”