“It is horrible stuff,” he said. “I had really much rather not read it.”
“Shall I go away?”
“No.”
“Then read!”
A great wave of timidity came over the young man in that moment. He could not account for it, for he had often read to Constance the manuscript of his short articles. But this seemed very different. He let the folded sheets rest on his knee, and gazed into the distance, seeing nothing and wishing that he might sink through the earth into his own room. To judge from the sensation in his throat, he would not be able to read at all. Then all at once, he grew cold. He had undertaken to do this thing and he must carry it through, come what might. Constance would not laugh at him, and she would be just. He wished that she were Johnson, for it would be easier.
“I am waiting,” she said with a gentle smile. George laughed.
“I never was so frightened in my life,” he said. “I know what stage fright is, now.”
Constance looked at him, and she liked his timidity more than she had often liked his boldness. She felt that she loved him a little more than before. Her voice was very soft when she spoke.
“Are you afraid of me, dear?” she asked.
The blood came to George’s face. It was the first time she had ever used an endearing expression in speaking to him.