"
"And now--"
Just for a second the girl glanced at the questioner, then she looked
away.
"I'm not in the least afraid of you now--or of anything."
"Not even of your husband?"
"No," unemotionally. "I leave that to you."
Again the man's face twitched, but he was silent.
"I said afraid of nothing," retracted the girl swiftly. "I made a
mistake." Of a sudden her face grew old and tense. "I am afraid of
something; horribly afraid. I'm as afraid, as you are of death, of this
infinite eventless monotony." She bit her lip deep, unconsciously. "I
sometimes think the old fear of everything were preferable, were the
lesser of the two evils."
Just perceptibly the figure of the man grew alert. The loose skin under
his eyes drew tight as the lids partially closed.
"You've been a bit slow about it, Bess," he said, "but I think you've
gotten down to realities at last." He likewise looked away; but
unseeingly. The mind of Clayton Craig was not on the landscape that
spring morning. "I even fancy that at last you realise what a mess
you've made of your life."
The girl showed no resentment, no surprise.
"Yes, I think I do," she said.
"You are perhaps even prepared to admit that I wasn't such a brute after
all in attempting to prevent your doing as you did."
"No," monotonously. "You could have prevented it if you hadn't been a
brute."
Again the man looked at her, unconscious of self.
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