It seemed to her, now, that nothing mattered except that their love for each other, their faith in each other, should be saved from some unhealable hurt. She was willing to tell Nick everything—she wanted to tell him everything—if only she could be sure of reaching a responsive chord in him. But the scene of the cigars came back to her, and benumbed her. If only she could make him see that nothing was of any account as long as they continued to love each other!
His touch fell compassionately on her shoulder. “Poor child—don’t,” he said.
Their eyes met, but his expression checked the smile breaking through her tears. “Don’t you see,” he continued, “that we’ve got to have this thing out?”
She continued to stare at him through a prism of tears. “I can’t—while you stand up like that,” she stammered, childishly.
She had cowered down again into a corner of the lounge; but Lansing did not seat himself at her side. He took a chair facing her, like a caller on the farther side of a stately tea-tray. “Will that do?” he asked with a stiff smile, as if to humour her.
“Nothing will do—as long as you’re not you!”
“Not me?”
She shook her head wearily. “What’s the use? You accept things theoretically—and then when they happen....”
“What things? What has happened!”
A sudden impatience mastered her. What did he suppose, after all—? “But you know all about Ellie. We used to talk about her often enough in old times,” she said.