"When are they going to operate?"

"When he is a little stronger. Why don't you come into see him?"

"I can't. That's the truth. I can't face the poor youngster."

"He doesn't seem to blame you; he says it's all in the game."

"Sidney, does Christine know that I was not alone that night?"

"If she guesses, it is not because of anything the boy has said. He has
told nothing."

Out of the firelight, away from the chatter and the laughter, Palmer's face
showed worn and haggard. He put his free hand on Sidney's shoulder.

"I was thinking that perhaps if I went away--"

"That would be cowardly, wouldn't it?"

"If Christine would only say something and get it over with! She doesn't
sulk; I think she's really trying to be kind. But she hates me, Sidney.
She turns pale every time I touch her hand."

All the light had died out of Sidney's face. Life was terrible, after
all--overwhelming. One did wrong things, and other people suffered; or one
was good, as her mother had been, and was left lonely, a widow, or like
Aunt Harriet. Life was a sham, too. Things were so different from what
they seemed to be: Christine beyond the door, pouring tea and laughing with
her heart in ashes; Palmer beside her, faultlessly dressed and wretched.
The only one she thought really contented was K. He seemed to move so
calmly in his little orbit. He was always so steady, so balanced. If life
held no heights for him, at least it held no depths.