"Yes."
He faced down the street of the Holy Fathers away from the pension; she came beside him. He took her hand and for a moment held it as, undoubtedly, he and Cynthia had done when walking in darkened streets together; but after a few steps he released her.
"Your hand's thinner, Cynthia."
"I suppose so."
"You're a little thinner all over. I can't see you well; but you felt that way," he said a little sadly, referring to his embrace which she had broken. "You've been overdoing, of course."
She made no reply; and for several seconds he offered nothing more but went on, gazing down at her. "You've been fine, Cynthia, in getting those people out." He spoke of what he had heard of her work in the retreat. "I knew ten days ago you were in it; but I couldn't go to you! I tried to; I tried to get into the fight. We all tried—our men; but they didn't want us. Except Gerry Hull, of course, and a few like him."
He said this so completely without bitterness—with envy, only—that Ruth felt more warmly for him. "It's Gerry Hull, isn't it, Cynthia?" he demanded directly.
"Yes," she admitted now. Denial had become wholly impossible; moreover, by telling the truth—or that much of the truth which had to do with Gerry Hull—she might send George Byrne away. It was a cruel wrong to him, and to the girl who was dead; but the wrong already was done. Ruth merely was beginning herself to reap some of the fruits of her deception.
"You love him?" Byrne inquired of her inevasively.
