Goddard stood before the fire, with his hands in his jacket pockets. The sense of personal humiliation still smouldered within him, but the raging of the flame had been subdued. He felt that he could hold up his head again. And it was the loyal tender sympathy of that woman in the low arm-chair before him who had brought it about. He had never known before how a woman could be a necessity in a man’s life. Till then he even had not realised how imperious were the cravings for her, in spite of the revolt of his galled pride, during that weary journey back to town. She looked so fair and exquisite. His eyes met hers. But something more than her beauty stirred the eternal masculine within him, and when he spoke his voice vibrated.
“Will you always treat me like this, Lady Phayre?”
She smiled.
“Is it much to do for you?”
“It is growing to mean everything in the world to me. I have lived a rough life away from women—ladies—women like you. Hitherto it has never occurred to me that I was not self-sufficing—that I could ever look to a woman for help. A year ago I should have laughed at it—thought it a sickly fancy of the hyper-sensitive semi-men in novels. But I have needed you this day, and I came to you because something stronger than I impelled me. And you have given me new life to-night. Do you know that?”
“You were looking so worn out and sad when you came in, that it pained me,” said Lady Phayre, non-committally.
But Goddard’s ear detected a soft note in her voice. He came near to her, sat down on the fender-stool, almost by her knees.
“Why are all women not like you? What a great beautiful world it would be.”
“Any woman would have done the same; given you of her best to cheer you. Besides, I was grieved—you have worked so nobly. Everybody has been talking about you—of nothing else. I felt so proud I had been working with you in my poor way—and I had set my heart upon your winning.”
“And I have failed miserably,” said Goddard. “Therefore you ought to feel I was unworthy of your trust.”