“—to say I’m sorry. You’ll never know how sorry I am. I’d no shadow of right to do it. I see that now.”
She stopped abruptly, believing she saw in his quick movement—he had risen from his chair and was fidgeting with the toys on the mantel—his man’s apprehension of a scene. She watched him, absurdly occupied in piling matches, spilliken fashion: watched and waited till she could wait no longer.
“Justin——” she petitioned.
He turned. He was smiling at her—shyly, significantly, half-laughing.
“Don’t worry, Laura,” he said again.
His meaning was obvious enough, yet she stared at him, too incredulous to feel relief or contentment or triumph—any of the emotions she had a right to feel.
“Do you mean—is it possible—you don’t mind any more?”
“Not much,” he confessed.
“You’ve got over it—that I smashed it—your eggs—the collection—the only thing you ever cared about?”
“Oh, look here—I’m not a fool,” he protested. “I never made such a God Almighty out of them as that!”