"And I am equally certain of one thing, and that is that you care for me. And I tell you, Chip, I don't care twopence for your self-respect, or whatever you call it, that you think so much of. And I care even less for my own, at the moment. And I am tired of your loneliness—your awful loneliness—and I am tired to death of my own loneliness. And I am tired of hearing you call yourself a failure, and I am frightened of being a failure myself—and only you can save me from it. Only you! And if you talk any more nonsense about my kindness now . . ."
"Judy!" he cried, in a voice that was like a warning. "Judy!"
"Yes. I've done a dreadful thing. I know I have. And I don't care. I want you to tell me all the things you haven't dared to tell me yet. I want to hear them all . . . now. Are you going to tell me, Chip? Are you?"
She was half frightened when she saw the look of exaltation on his face. It was his great—his supreme moment. The moment that comes once to nearly every man, of awe and ecstasy.
"God forgive me!" he cried. "I will!"
