But it was not, really, a consciously deductive process at all; just
a clairvoyant look--_into_ him, and a sudden, complete, utterly
confident understanding.
He had come down here to New York to make another beginning. He meant to
assert no rights, not even in their common memories, he would make no
appeal. But something that he felt he had forfeited he was going to try
to earn back. What was the thing he sought--her friendship, or her love?
She knew! No plea that the inspired rhetoric of passion could be capable
of could have convinced her of his love for her and of his need for her
love as did the divine absurdity of this attempt of his to show her that
she need give him--nothing. She knew. Oh, how she knew!
She stole back into her little kitchen and shut the door and leaned
giddily against it, trying to get her breath to coming steadily again.
At last she straightened up and wiped her eyes. A smile played across
her lips; the smile of deep maternal tenderness. Then she picked up her
box of matches and carried them to him in the sitting-room.
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