We sat down.
We seemed to have the whole, beautiful, wonderful world to ourselves—only it was an empty old eggshell of a thing, because he didn't care.
"Pam," he said, "I want to thank you for being a fine little pal to me. I—I must have seemed a pretty rotten sort of swine often."
Now, as I write him down and the things he says, he doesn't cut a very gallant figure, and yet he is. He's a big man—his eyes, his laugh, his voice, the funny way he says things. He makes all other men seem little and very young.
"Oh no!" I said. I shut my eyes because I could concentrate on getting carelessness into my voice, and it all hurt so horribly.
He seems little and ordinary—I can pop the atmosphere on paper—but he wasn't; he was big, and splendid, and very, very far away from me. I seemed to look at him through glass and hear him through space. He isn't the type that could share himself with two women—I expect I got that feeling because he'd given everything to Grace.
"Pam," he said, "I'm so afraid—it's tortured me! You had a rotten dull life before I came. Will—will it seem very dreadful going back?"
"I always knew I should have to," I said steadily.
"Yes," he said, "I know!" I had never heard his voice like that. "Pam—be honest! I didn't know how absolutely splendid you were! I thought you were just like other women!"
I rose and stuck my hands in my pockets.