“You said there was something else you wished to tell me. I can’t imagine anything more, anything you didn’t tell just now. However, I’m listening.”
The man said nothing, nor moved—just looked at her.
“I repeat, I’m listening.”
“Yes, I notice.” Armstrong pulled himself together absently. “I was thinking of something else; I’d forgotten momentarily. I always was an absent-minded specimen; and lately—I’ve been worse than usual lately.” 155
The girl merely waited this time, the great brown eyes wide and dry.
“When it comes to telling you, though,” stumbled on the man, “what I came to tell you to-night, what I don’t wish to tell you but must—Elice, don’t look at me, please; don’t! My nerve’s gone. Don’t you wish to ask me questions instead?”
“Perhaps,” obediently the girl turned away, “after you’ve made things clear a bit. Don’t fancy I’m trying to make it hard for you. I’m not, only, only—Remember, I’m all in the dark yet, all confused.”
“Yes, I know—and I’m to blame. I’ve been trying for a week to bring myself to tell you, one thing at a time; but I couldn’t, and now—everything’s tumbled on my head together now.”
“Everything? Steve, begin somewhere, anywhere. Don’t suggest things; tell me. It’s been ten days since you called last. Why was that?”
“I was afraid. I tried to come, but I couldn’t.”