“Do not think less of my kindness, Quincy, because I mentioned it.”
These words came low, and that which followed fitted almost into the shadows, so warm and still was it.
“You have been kind to me. You have helped me also—more than I ever can help you. I need you to be kind to, Quincy.”
He gazed at her. Her eyes came straight and true to him. There was no doubting them. And in the vibrance of their aim, they rang upon the flint of his old challenge. Thus it was that his words came sudden, unpremeditated, hard.
“And your husband—?” he asked.
Her face did not move, save for her mouth which closed as if it had been stung. Then, again, it parted.
“Lawrence lives entirely in his ideas. A woman is no idea. Neither is a child.”
“A child—” he cried. At once, she caught him up, crystallizing his presentiment of what she meant into a certainty.
“Yes, Quincy—” she spoke in a biting tone, “I have no child.”
But even his certainty required propping, so vast was the weight of dream and fancy which tumbled on it. He raked at her heart with a clumsy savagery.