The unhappy, storm-tossed man and his tormentor—for that was what Judith was, meaningly or without intent—turned to go back towards the noisy world. Half-way, as though she would use the silence and darkness of the alley they were passing through for the freedom of speech such surroundings give, Judith spoke again. If Charlotte Eldridge had been there, her interpretation of Judith certainly would have been: "She doesn't mean to let him go—not she!" Would it have been a fair one?
Possibly. But all Judith said was: "I am afraid I am a woman without a heart."
Challis said interrogatively: "Because...?" and waited.
"Because I find myself only thinking of what I shall lose when you go. If I were good, Scroop"—a slight sneer here—"I should have a little thought for you. I suppose I'm bad. Very well!"
"I am taking no credit to myself for any sort of altruism in my—my feelings towards yourself." Challis shied off from the use of the word "love"; but whether because it would have rung presumptuously without the sanction of its object, or because of the bald rapidity of its use on the stage, where Time is of the essence of the contract, he might have found it hard to say.
"I should not thank you for it. Nor any woman. But many a woman who injures a friend unawares—being unselfish and pious and so on—would gladly...." She hesitated.
"Put a salve to the wound?"
"Well—yes—that sort of thing! But I am afraid I am rather brutal about it. Can you not, after all, forget this foolish infatuation for my sake? Consider the wild words you spoke just now unsaid, and give me back my friend. Come, Scroop!" Her beautiful eyes were surely full of honest appeal—no arrière pensée Mrs. Eldridge would have damned her for—as she went frankly close to him and laid her hand on his.
He shrank from her—absolutely shrank!—and gasped as though her touch took his breath away. He found no words, and she had not finished.
"Think—oh, think!—what rights could I ever have in you? Think of your wife...."