“Yes. She is my wife; but she is not mine. At first, of course, I believed she was. But she withdrew.”
“She accuses you of withdrawing, Mr. Deering!” The boy cried this out, as if in pain.
The other bit his lip, savagely. “Then you have heard both sides, Mr. Burt? What more can you demand?”
And again, there was a pause.
“Did you come here,” the big man’s voice was low and vibrant with his question, “did you come here to judge me?”
Quincy hid his face in his hands. “To judge you? To judge you? Good God! I came here to ask you to judge me!”
A jet of understanding shivered through the man. Quincy was not looking. And in that moment, his face broke. He righted himself, mastered himself and strode toward the boy. He wrenched his hands from his face.
“Look up!” he cried.
And Quincy met his clear, deep brown eyes—met them unflinchingly, his head strained up to do so, his body still huddled in his chair, his wrists hotly clenched in the hands of the Professor.
The Professor dropped his hold.