The man did not move.  Apparently he had not noticed.

“The time was,” he went on monotonously, “when I thought differently, when I fancied that some time, somewhere, I would meet a girl I understood, who could understand me.  But I never do.  No matter how well I become acquainted with women, we never vitally touch, never become necessary to each other.  It seems somehow that I’m the only one of my kind, that I must go through life so—­alone.”

Nearer and nearer crept the girl; not as maid to man, but as one child presses closer to another in the darkness.  One of her companion’s hands lay listless on his knee, and instinctively, compellingly, she placed her own upon it, pressed it softly.

“I am so selfish,” she voiced contritely, “to tell you of my own love, my own happiness.  I didn’t mean to hurt you.  I simply couldn’t help it, it’s such a big thing in my own life.  I’m so sorry.”

Just perceptibly Craig stirred; but still he did not look at her.  When he spoke again there was the throb of repression in his voice; but that was all.

“I’m lonely at times,” he went on dully, evasively, “you don’t know how lonely.  Now and then someone, as you unconsciously did a bit ago, shows me the other side of life, the happy side; and I wish I were dead.”  A mist came into his eyes, a real mist.  “The future looks so blank, so hopeless that it becomes a nightmare to me.  Anything else would be preferable, anything.  It’s so to-day, now.”  He halted and of a sudden turned away so that his face was concealed.  “God forgive me, but I wish it were over with, that I were dead!”

“No, no!  You mustn’t say that!  You mustn’t!” Forgetful entirely, the girl arose, stood facing him.  Tears that she could not prevent were in the brown eyes and her lip twitched.  “It’s so good to be alive.  You can’t mean it.  You can’t.”

“But I do.  It’s true.”  Craig did not stir, did not glance up.  “What’s the use of living, of doing anything, when no one else cares, ever will care.  What’s the use—­”

“But somebody does care,” interrupted the girl swiftly, “all of us here care.  Don’t say that again, please don’t.  I can’t bear to hear you.”  She halted, swallowed hard at a lump which rose hinderingly in her throat.  “I feel somehow as though I was to blame, as though if you should mean what you said, should—­should—­” Again she halted; the soft brown eyes glistening, the dainty oval chin trembling uncontrollably, her fingers locked tight.  A moment she stood so, uncertain, helpless; then of a sudden the full horror of the possibility the other had suggested came over her, swept away the last barrier of reserve.  Not the faintest suspicion of the man’s sincerity, of his honesty, occurred to her, not the remotest doubt.  In all her life no one had ever lied to her; she had never consciously lied to another.  The world of subterfuge was an unread book.  This man had intimated he would do this terrible thing.  He meant it.  He would do it, unless—­unless—­