Something in her tone caught his attention. “I forgot to tell you,” she went on. “Father has given Palmer five thousand dollars. He's going to buy a share in a business.” “That's fine.” “Possibly. I don't believe much in Palmer's business ventures.” Her flat tone still held him. Underneath it he divined strain and repression. “I hate to go and leave you alone,” he said at last from the door. “Have you any idea when Palmer will be back?” “Not the slightest. K., will you come here a moment? Stand behind me; I don't want to see you, and I want to tell you something.” He did as she bade him, rather puzzled. “Here I am.” “I think I am a fool for saying this. Perhaps I am spoiling the only chance I have to get any happiness out of life. But I have got to say it. It's stronger than I am. I was terribly unhappy, K., and then you came into my life, and I--now I listen for your step in the hall. I can't be a hypocrite any longer, K.” When he stood behind her, silent and not moving, she turned slowly about and faced him. He towered there in the little room, grave eyes on hers. “It's a long time since I have had a woman friend, Christine,” he said soberly. “Your friendship has meant a good deal. In a good many ways, I'd not care to look ahead if it were not for you. I value our friendship so much that I--” “That you don't want me to spoil it,” she finished for him. “I know you don't care for me, K., not the way I--But I wanted you to know. It doesn't hurt a good man to know such a thing. And it--isn't going to stop your coming here, is it?” “Of course not,” said K. heartily. “But to-morrow, when we are both clear-headed, we will talk this over. You are mistaken about this thing, Christine; I am sure of that. Things have not been going well, and just because I am always around, and all that sort of thing, you think things that aren't really so. I'm only a reaction, Christine.” He tried to make her smile up at him. But just then she could not smile. If she had cried, things might have been different for every one; for perhaps K. would have taken her in his arms. He was heart-hungry enough, those days, for anything. And perhaps, too, being intuitive, Christine felt this. But she had no mind to force him into a situation against his will. “It is because you are good,” she said, and held out her hand. “Good-night.” Le Moyne took it and bent over and kissed it lightly. There was in the kiss all that he could not say of respect, of affection and understanding. “Good-night, Christine,” he said, and went into the hall and upstairs. The lamp was not lighted in his room, but the street light glowed through the windows. Once again the waving fronds of the ailanthus tree flung ghostly shadows on the walls. There was a faint sweet odor of blossoms, so soon to become rank and heavy. Over the floor in a wild zigzag darted a strip of white paper which disappeared under the bureau. Reginald was building another nest. CHAPTER XXI