Love makes ordinary every-days, full of ordinary every-day tasks, into high-days and festivals full of little sacred services and missions.
"Pam," he said. He lifted his head and looked at me. "I'm sorrier than ever, my poor little soul—since last night. You see, I always thought that Walter Markham cared, but I didn't know that you did. Kiddie, you're such a splendid little sport, and I'll help you all I can; but if you can't stick it, dear, I'll understand."
"Stick what?" I said.
He put his hand over mine, and I felt it tremble, and somehow the trembling made me very strong.
"I'm an only son," he said. "I think I've been rather a bad egg, debts and cards, wandering over the face of the earth, a sort of rolling stone, running away from my niche. It's worried the poor old mater. You see, Cromer Court is rather a topping old place, family for generations and all that. She wanted me to settle and marry and all that. Grief of her life that I didn't."
"Yes," I said.
"She's splendid, absolutely fine. Pam, somebody has told her—about us. She wrote me a wonderful letter this morning—it broke me up—about us."
"About us?" I said idiotically.
"Someone wrote to her and told her I was engaged to you. She wants to see my future wife. She's dying. I had a telegram from my cousin down there. Her letter was so wonderful. She said she would die happy knowing. Pam—is it too much?" His eyes were full of tears.
"It's nothing," I said. "I understand."