"But you're human," the voice went on. "You have more angel in you than most--but you're not an angel. You're wise--very wise, Judith Wynrod--too wise to be an angel. Heaven is for the fools. The wise have the earth. It's the little things--like table manners and polished shoes--that keep us out of heaven. I'm fool enough to brave these little things. But you're wise. You know that they would increase and multiply and crush us both, because they are stronger than we. If we were souls--merely souls--it would be different. But I'm a man. You're human, too. If we were souls alone--less human--less wise--the little things--would not matter. But we aren't just souls. No, we are not--we are not...." The tender, wistful voice died away. The world seemed very distant to Judith for a moment, and only this man, who talked like a god--or an idiot--mattered. There was a tense, fleeting moment, when, had Good known it, the course of both their lives might have been changed. But he did not know it. The moment passed. The wind sighed in the trees again. The myriad noises of the night were loosed. A locomotive whistled dismally. A thousand tentacles seemed to come down on Judith and overwhelm her and bind her fast; and with the sound of the whistle she knew that the world was with her once more. She had been an angel for a moment. She was one no longer. The tears fell unchecked. "It's funny, isn't it," Good was saying in a matter-of-fact tone, "that the trifles--things we really don't value at all--should keep people from the one thing that counts. Queer world, this. But it's one of the rules of the game. It's silly to complain. As well mock the stars." His voice broke miserably and he covered his face with his hands. As she stared miserably at the stooped, shabby figure of the truest friend she had ever known, she felt very small and mean and ineffective, wishing that she might say something which would comfort him, knowing that anything she could say would hurt him more than silence. She was shamed by her impotency. But when she thought of the bright camaraderie which had been between them, and would be no more, she was angry. Why had he spoiled it all? Why had he not let things be? She was aroused from her reverie by the sound of his desolate voice. "Truly, it is the last day. Tears ... and then ice." He paused. "It will rain presently, I think--with snow," he added quite calmly. Almost as he spoke the rain began. They parted hurriedly. There was a quick hand-shake, a murmured word, and she was fleeing from him with the print of his lips still hot on her fingers. It was an utterly wretched woman who sat staring for hours afterward at the blank wall before her. And it was a hopeless, beaten man who trudged through the dripping trees toward the station. Fate had had its pleasure with both. Tired of the sport, it had crushed them like eggshells. CHAPTER XII ONLY A WOMAN