I am, and so I was lying here just thinking of
nothing."
His fears were unnecessary. She was as healthily oblivious of his
disturbance as he was morbidly conscious of it. She sat still, her
hands clasped round her knees, about which the blanket draped blackly.
"I was thinking, too," she said.
"Of what?"
"Of what that man was saying of David."
There was a silence. He lay motionless, his trouble coming back upon
him. He wished that he might dare to impose upon her a silence on that
one subject. David, given a place in her mind, would sit at every
feast, walk beside them, lie between them in their marriage bed.
"Why do you think of him?" he asked.
"Because--" her tone showed surprise. "It's natural, isn't it? Don't
you? I'm sure you do. I do often, much oftener than you think. I'm
always hoping that he'll come."
"You never loved him," he said, in a voice from which all spring was
gone.
"No, but he was my friend, and I would like to keep him so for always.
I think of his kindness, his gentleness, all the good part of him
before the trail broke him down. And, I think, too, how cruel I was to
him.
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