At first Hale thought that she had shrunk from kissing him in the
car because other people were around. He knew better now. At that
moment he was as rough and dirty as the chain-carrier opposite
him, who was just in from a surveying expedition in the mountains,
as the sooty brakeman who came through to gather up the fares--as
one of those good-natured, profane inebriates up in the corner.
No, it was not publicity--she had shrunk from him as she was
shrinking now from black smoke, rough men, the shaking of the
train--the little pool of tobacco juice at her feet. The truth
began to glimmer through his brain. He understood, even when she
leaned forward suddenly to look into the mouth of the gap, that
was now dark with shadows. Through that gap lay her way and she
thought him now more a part of what was beyond than she who had
been born of it was, and dazed by the thought, he wondered if he
might not really be. At once he straightened in his seat, and his
mind made up, as he always made it up--swiftly. He had not
explained why he had not met her that morning, nor had he
apologized for his rough garb, because he was so glad to see her
and because there were so many other things he wanted to say; and
when he saw her, conscious and resentful, perhaps, that he had not
done these things at once--he deliberately declined to do them
now.
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