“Steve Armstrong! Steve—what do you fancy I’m made of! Do you mean to tell me or merely to—dissect?”
“No, not dissect, to tell you. That’s why I came; to tell you several things, this among the rest. Elice, don’t do that, don’t cry. Please!—I don’t intend to be a brute, I didn’t mean anything. I’m simply ashamed to tell you straight from the shoulder. I’m down in the gutter. You’ll hear, though, anyway. I might better—I was drunk, irresponsible, two days in succession. That’s all.”
“You—that way; you, Steve Armstrong!” No tears now, no hysterics; just steady, unbelieving expectancy. “I can’t believe it—won’t. You’re playing with me.”
“No, it’s true. I won’t say ‘God knows it’s true.’ I’m not dog enough yet to—blaspheme. It’s simply true.”
“Steve!” The girl was on her feet, half way to him. “I never dreamed, never—You poor boy!”
“Elice, don’t—don’t touch me. I ask it—don’t!”
“What—you can’t mean—that!”
“Yes. Sit down, please.” The voice was thick. “I have several things to tell you. This was only one.” 154
For long, interminably long it seemed to the watcher, the girl stood where she had paused, midway; the figure of her still, too still, her face shading first red to the ear tips, then slowly colorless as understanding drove home. A half-minute probably, in reality, immeasurably longer to them both it seemed, she stood so. Without a word she went back to her seat, remained there, unnaturally still, her arms, bare to the elbow in half sleeves, forming a great white V as the clasped hands lay motionless in her lap.
For another half-minute no word was spoken, no sound from without drifted into the room. Suddenly the girl turned, her great dark eyes met those of the man, held them steadily.