“I’m sure I could help you to find something to do, Charley.”
He shook his head, still smiling, his teeth white against his sunburned face. She saw the fine lines about his eyes, his shabbiness, his invincible gallantry.
“Charley!” she cried, and threw her arms about his neck. “Oh, don’t, don’t go, Charley!”
He held her tight, clasped to his wet coat, and with one hand stroked her fair head lying on his shoulder.
“Oh, don’t, don’t go away, Charley!” she sobbed. “I do—need you so!”
He put his hand under her chin and lifted her face, streaming with tears. He looked straight into her eyes, and smiled again. There was something almost terrible in that smile, something inflexible, hard as steel.
“No, you don’t!” he said. “You’re a sentimental kid, that’s all. You’re going to forget all about me, like a nice kid, and six months from now you’re going to write[Pg 551] me a letter and tell me about the wonderful boy you’ve got.”
She could smile, too, quite as steadily as he.
“All right!” she said. “All right, if you want to pretend it’s that way; but you know I won’t forget.”
He did not smile any more.