He stopped toying with a handful of dry twigs and let them slip away between his fingers. She saw his head come up; saw his eyes narrow. Then her own body stiffened as she realized what she had said. And yet it was, after all, only a part of something she had decided she must make clear to him, ever since he had surprised her there at the road edge; it was part of an explanation which, without quite knowing why, she felt was due to him. But she had not meant to employ that abrupt confession as a preface. That made it inconceivably harder, it seemed. And he, silent at her feet, stared out at the blue rim of the hills and gave her no assistance now--not so much as a smile. She sat a long time, nursing one slim knee between her palms. "Mr. O'Mara," she appealed to him at last, "how might one reopen a--a rather difficult subject with--with a suddenly most difficult conversationalist?" Without turning his head he made answer: "I think Fat Joe's method is as good as any," he suggested. "Joe says the only way to reopen any argument is to take a running jump and land all spraddled out, right in the middle of it. He insists that such procedure leaves no doubt in the mind of anyone that the discussion is about to be resumed." She laughed a little. "Then shall we consider that I've taken--the--the jump, and landed?" Just when she was wishing most that she could see his face he swung around toward her. Again his gravity was a totally gentle thing. It made her remember the self-possessed kindliness with which he had met her unreasoning rage the night before. "You don't have to explain," he told her, "unless you are sure you want to. Sometimes, you see, I understand things without any special explanation. It's a trick one learns from living alone a lot with one's own thoughts. I told you, last night, that I wouldn't have you saying 'I'm sorry' to me. And now I'll tell you that nothing you can ever say, now, is going to stop me from----" "I want to, please," she interrupted him vehemently. "I--have to! And I'm not going to make believe that I don't know what you are going to tell me--what you have been saying to me, all morning. But it can't do any good. Why, I'm just realizing that something which has been hurting me for hours was just--just sorrow for you. It can't do any good, oh, truly! But will you let me talk first, if I promise to listen afterward?" He promised. "Twice I've been bitterly unkind to you," she began again. "Once a long time ago--and--and once last night. And on both occasions you had just tried to tell me, indirectly at least, that you cared, hadn't you?" "Indirectly?" he murmured. "Was I as obscure as that?" And then, whimsically: "Won't you call that explanation enough, and let me tell it to you again--so you can't misunderstand?"