"Tom," she said quietly, "aren't you going to speak to me?"
He got up, peering into the semi-darkness.
"Who is it?"
"It's Kay, Tom."
He stood very still, still holding his cigarette.
"What is there to speak about?" he said, after a pause. "You and I—we got talked out a long time ago."
"Do you really feel that way, Tom? Because if you do"
"It's not a question of how I feel, is it? You showed me plain enough when you left me."
"You're still angry, then?"
"Angry! God, no. Angry's not the word. What's there to be angry about? You got out in good time, that's all. I've had some bad luck, but that wouldn't interest you."
She had not known what she had expected, but not this. Certainly not this. She felt half sick, defeated. She tried again.
"In that letter, Tom, I told you I'd come back if you wanted me. When you didn't even answer it, what was I to think?"
"I swore I'd never send for you; you knew it when you wrote that letter."
She could see him better now. He was standing with his arms folded. She could see his overalls, his unshaven chin, the set lines of his face. Her heart sank, but she felt a yearning pity for him, too. He looked like some trapped wild creature.
"Tom," she said desperately, "I came to you once before, right here. Why do you think I did that?"
He gave a short bitter laugh.
"Why?" he said. "Because you didn't know me then, that's why. You thought all a cowboy had to do was to ride around and look handsome. When you found out different, good night!"
"If I ever did think that"
"You've had a chance to learn better! What's the use of
