Jean watched the nervous working of his fingers and her fear grew. Something must be very wrong. Her longing to comfort him struggled with her pride against asking a confidence he might not wish to give. At last pride went to defeat.
Jean covered his hand with hers.
"What is it, Gregory? You look worried to death."
Her touch assured him sympathy. He would tell her. What? Ask her to understand all that Puck meant to him? Show her a part of his life that she did not touch at all?
"Out with it." The forced gayety of the tone rasped. He wanted to withdraw his hand. Where was the boasted intuition of feminine love? Why didn't Jean know what he wanted to tell her? The firm fingers pressed his, as if to give him courage. He looked up. Jean was waiting with a calm strength in her eyes. What on earth did she think was the matter? The situation became suddenly overtuned and ridiculous. Gregory pushed back his chair and rose.
"Nothing, really. Have I been such an awful bore? I'm sorry, but I'm terribly tired. I was up all night."
"Why?"
Jean's eyes, on a level with his own, demanded the truth. Gregory felt trapped and angry.
"Oh, that damned contest. I've been working for the last two weeks on the wrong tack." He held her coat and Jean turned to slip her arms into the sleeves.
What a silly she had been! As if any man ever lost a night's sleep and was the same the next day. After all, she was rather like Martha sometimes. Jean smiled to herself.