A few understanding words and she would have poured
her trouble out to him, less in hope of sympathy than in a craving for
relief. The widening gulf would have been bridged and he would have
gained the closest hold upon her he had yet had. But if she were more
a woman than ever before, dependent, asking for aid, he was less a man,
wanting himself to rest on her and have his discomforts made bearable
by her consolations.
She looked at him tentatively. His eyes were closed, the lids
curiously dark, and fringed with long lashes like a girl's.
"Are you asleep?" she asked.
"No," he answered without raising them. "Only tired."
She considered for a moment, then said:
"Have you ever told a lie?"
"A lie? I don't know. I guess so. Everybody tells lies sometime or
other."
"Not little lies. Serious ones, sinful ones, to people you love."
"No. I never told that kind. That's a pretty low-down thing to do."
"Mightn't a person do it--to--to--escape from something they didn't
want, something they suddenly--at that particular moment--dreaded and
shrank from?"
"Why couldn't they speak out, say they didn't want to do it? Why did
they have to lie?"
"Perhaps they didn't have time to think, and didn't want to hurt the
person who asked it.
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