each other. We're both very inclined to be reserved, and to-day . . . to-day that sort of thing seems to me very petty and artificial."
He turned and looked at her, smiling.
"You could never be either petty or artificial."
"Yes, I could. I have been. But I don't mean to be so with you. What will you think of me, Chip, if I tell you that I know . . . yes, I know . . . that you need me . . . badly, and that I believe . . . I know . . . that I need you."
Her voice was unsteady, in spite of her courage.
"I think," he answered in a low voice, "that it is your divine kindness that makes you say that to me. I think you say it because you know well enough that there's nothing on earth I would rather hear."
But he did not dare to look at her, and stared out at the sea with his pipe between his teeth.
Judy laughed. A rather helpless laugh, with something of exasperation in it.
"Kindness! Oh, no. It's not that at all. I'll tell you what it is. I'm telling you this because I'm one of those women who are possessed of an insatiable vanity. I'm trying to make you say things of the same sort to me. I exact it from every man. I like being made love to, on general principles. I took the trouble to come down to
