He seemed to clear the muggy air around her like a summer shower. In touch with his fine courage, her own returned. She felt herself steadier and calmer than she had been for a week.
"What if you make mistakes, Peter?"
"It's the only way you learn," he answered. "There's a new note in your voice, Marjory. Have—you been learning?"
His meaning was clear. He leaned forward as if trying to pierce the darkness between them. His thin white hands were tight upon the chair arms.
"At least, I've been making mistakes," she answered uneasily.
She felt, for a second, as if she could pour out her troubles to him—as if he would listen patiently and give her of his wisdom and strength. It would be easier—she was ashamed of the thought, but it held true—because he could not see. Almost—she could tell him of herself and of Monte.
"There's such a beautiful woman in you!" he explained passionately.
With her heart beating fast, she dropped back in her chair. There was the old ring in his voice—the old masterful decision that used to frighten her. There used to be moments when she was afraid that he might command her to come with him as with authority, and that she would go.
"I 've always known that you'd learn some day all the fine things that are in you—all the fine things that lay ahead of you to do as a woman," he ran on. "You've only been waiting; that's all."
He could not see her cheeks—she was thankful for that. But the wonder was that he did not hear the pounding of her heart. He spoke like this, not knowing of this last week.