Apparently he had not noticed.
"The time was," he went on monotonously, "when I thought differently,
when I fancied that some time, somewhere, I would meet a girl I
understood, who could understand me. But I never do. No matter how well
I become acquainted with women, we never vitally touch, never become
necessary to each other. It seems somehow that I'm the only one of my
kind, that I must go through life so--alone."
Nearer and nearer crept the girl; not as maid to man, but as one child
presses closer to another in the darkness. One of her companion's hands
lay listless on his knee, and instinctively, compellingly, she placed
her own upon it, pressed it softly.
"I am so selfish," she voiced contritely, "to tell you of my own love,
my own happiness. I didn't mean to hurt you. I simply couldn't help it,
it's such a big thing in my own life. I'm so sorry."
Just perceptibly Craig stirred; but still he did not look at her. When
he spoke again there was the throb of repression in his voice; but that
was all.
"I'm lonely at times," he went on dully, evasively, "you don't know how
lonely. Now and then someone, as you unconsciously did a bit ago, shows
me the other side of life, the happy side; and I wish I were dead." A
mist came into his eyes, a real mist. "The future looks so blank, so
hopeless that it becomes a nightmare to me. Anything else would be
preferable, anything. It's so to-day, now.
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