“It was good of you to come,” he said at last. “I thought I couldn’t bear to see anyone just now. But—it’s so different with you. I——”
He ceased speaking. His overstrung nerves were battling against a childish longing to bury his hot face in those cool little white hands whose lightest touch so thrilled him, and to tell this gentle, infinitely tender girl all about his sorrows, his broken hopes, his crushed self-esteem. In spirit he could feel her arms about his aching head, drawing it to her breast; could hear her whispered words of soothing and encouragement.
Then, on the moment, the babyish impulse passed and he was himself again, self-controlled, outwardly stolid, realizing as never before that the price of strength is loneliness.
“I am beaten,” he went on, “but I think, we made as good a fight as we could. Perhaps another time——”
She withdrew her hands from his. Into her big eyes had crept something almost akin to scorn.
“You are giving up?” she asked incredulously. “You will make no further effort to——”
“What more is to be done? The Committee on Credentials——”
“I know. I was there. It’s all been a wretched mistake from the very beginning. Oh, why were you so foolish about those letters?”
“Letters? What letters?”
“The letters sent you with news of Mr. Conover’s plans for——”