“I’ve done the best I can,” Claire went on, “but you see, I’m young, too; there are lots of things I don’t really know about life. I think perhaps I sometimes believe too much that things are going to be jolly, and that makes me a bad adviser for Maurice. Do you know what I mean?”
Winn nodded, but he determined that whether she expected or not, she should have things jolly. He must be able to manage it. If one wanted a thing as much as he wanted this, surely one could bring it off.
Hadn’t he pulled off races on the scratchiest of polo ponies, when he couldn’t afford better, out of sheer intention? He had meant to win, moved the pony along, and won. Was life less controllable than a shoddy polo pony?
He set his mouth and stared grimly out over the sparkling snow. He did not ask himself how a man with a wife hung round his neck like a millstone was going to manage the perpetual happiness of a stray young woman. He never asked himself questions or saw how things were to be done, but when the crisis came his instinct taught him in a flash the short cut to victory.
“Now,” said Claire, unexpectedly, “you are looking awfully dangerous — you do rather sometimes, you know — like a kind of volcano that might go off.”
Winn turned his eyes slowly toward her.
“I shall never be dangerous for you, Miss Rivers,” he said gently.
He did not know how much he promised her or that he was already incapable of keeping his promise. She looked away from him with smiling lips and happy, mysterious eyes. She had known long ago that all the force he had was as safe with her as if he had laid it in her hands; safer than that, because he held it in his own — for her.
It seemed to Claire that you were only perfectly secure when you were with a man who could be dangerous to everybody else, but always safe for you.
“You will help me with Maurice?” she said softly. “Then I sha’n’t feel worried any more.”