"For the man I was going to marry, Jim. You see he—he died."
Garth arose and turned to the window. He leaned there, staring at the busy street, listening to its jarring discords. Among the children at play one boy, unkempt and filthy, stood braced against a railing, crying at the top of his lungs. In his abandonment to disappointment Garth accepted the picture as typical of his life—a crying out for the unattainable, a surrender to despair. The night's work lost its terror. Its issue became a matter of callous indifference.
Then her hand was on his arm, drawing him around so that he saw her face, which had lost its colour, and the growing doubt in her eyes.
"Try to understand, Jim. I think I scarcely do myself. I only know it hurts to see you unhappy. Six months ago when you first came I never dreamed a man could make even that much difference to me again."
Without warning the colour rushed back to her face. She clenched her hands. The determination in her tone was overwhelming.
"Is that inconstancy to him? Don't think that. I'm not inconstant. I wouldn't be that."
Garth waved his hand helplessly.
"What difference—Never mind, Nora. It's finished."
"But you—It's so unfair. And I want you for my friend."
She sat down, hiding her face.