"Not if it hurts you."
Swiftly leaning toward him, she kissed the closed lids.
"Will you open them—now?"
She was in terror lest he should find it impossible again—as if that had been some temporary miracle which, having been scorned, would not be repeated.
Then once again she saw his eyes flutter open. This time she faced them with her fists clenched by her side. What a difference those eyes made in him. Closed, he was like a helpless child; open, he was a man. He grew taller, bigger, older, while she who had been leading him about shrank into insignificance. She felt pettier, plainer, less worthy than ever she had in her life. By sheer force of will power she held up her head and faced him as if she were facing the sun.
For a moment he feasted upon her hungrily. To see her hair, when for months he had been forced to content himself with memories of it; to see her white forehead, her big, deep eyes and straight nose; to see the lips which he had only felt—all that held him silent. But he saw something else there, too. In physical detail this face was the same that he had seen before he was stricken. But something had been added. Before she had the features of a girl; now she had the features of a woman. Something had since been added to the eyes and mouth—something he knew nothing about.
"Marjory," he said slowly, "I think there is a great deal you have left untold."
She tightened her lips. There was no further use of evasion. If he pressed her with his eyes open, he must know the truth.
"Yes, Peter," she answered.
"I can't decide," he went on slowly, "whether it has to do with a great grief or a great joy."