"Does it hurt, too, to talk about him?" he asked.
"It's impossible to talk about Monte without talking about his—his—about Mrs. Covington," Marjory explained feebly.
"They ought to be one," he admitted. "But you said they are about to separate."
"Yes, Peter; only I keep thinking of what ought to be."
She withdrew her hand and leaned back on the seat a little away from him. Sensitive to every movement of hers, he glanced up at this.
"Somehow,"—he said, with a strained expression,—"somehow I feel the need of seeing your eyes to-day. There's something I 'm missing. There's something here I don't understand."
"Don't try to understand, Peter," she cried. "It's better that you should n't."
"It's best always to know the truth," he said.
"Not always."
"Always," he insisted.