There wasn’t anything to think about, really; all he had to do was say good-bye to her. Two easy syllables. And stall off her questions as to where he was going, exactly how long he’d be gone. Be quiet and casual and unemotional about it, just as though they didn’t mean anything in particular to each other.
It had to be that way. He’d known Clare Wilson a year and a half now, and he’d kept her dangling that long; it wasn’t fair. This had to be the end, for her sake. He had about as much business asking a woman to marry him as—as a madman who thinks he’s Napoleon!
He dropped his cigarette and ground it viciously into the walk with his heel, then went back to the house, up on the porch, and rang the bell.
Clare herself came to the door. The light from the hallway behind her made her hair a circlet of spun gold around her shadowed face.
He wanted to take her into his arms so badly that he clenched his fists with the effort it took to keep his arms down.
Stupidly, he said, “Hi, Clare. How’s everything?”
“I don’t know, George. How is everything? Aren’t you coming in?”
She’d stepped back from the doorway to let him past and the light was on her face now, sweetly grave. She knew something was up, he thought; her expression and the tone of her voice gave that away.
He didn’t want to go in. He said, “It’s such a beautiful night, Clare. Let’s take a stroll.”
“All right, George.” She came out onto the porch. “It is a fine night, such beautiful stars.” She turned and looked at him. “Is one of them yours?”