Larry bit his lip, but didn't reply, for his mind was working rapidly. He had a perspective on the situation which had been denied to Jeff, and the vista did not seem unpleasant. He was prepared to fight for Jeff's interests and his own to the bitter end, but he was too keen a lawyer and too sound a philosopher not to know the value of compromise, and, in spite of himself, it was his legal mind which grasped the essentials of Jeff's relation to their common enemy. What would be the effect of this astonishing revelation on the mind of General Bent? He did not dare speak of this to Jeff, who in his present mood could only misinterpret him; but he was still thinking of it when the car drew up at the steps at Wetherall's big bungalow palace. Gretchen and their hostess met the arrivals at the door, and Jeff followed them in slowly. He wanted to be alone again to think—and here was sanctuary. Gretchen paused at the entrance to the morning room, and, taking Jeff by the arm, opened the door, pushed him in quickly, and closed it behind him. And while Jeff was wondering what it all meant he heard a step beside him, felt the timid touch of a hand on his sleeve, and found his eyes looking down into Camilla's.
"Jeff," she was whispering, "they told me you needed me, and so I came to you. Do you want me?"
He looked at her mistily, for the misfortunes which hung about him had dulled his perceptions. It seemed strange that she should be there, but he experienced no surprise at seeing her.
"Yes, I want you," he said absently. "Of course I want you." He fingered the hand on his sleeve and patted it gently, as he would have done a child's, but she saw with pain that the tragedy of his birth now overshadowed all other issues. If he was thinking of her at all, it was of the other Camilla—the Camilla he had known longest—the gingerbread woman that she had been. It hurt her, but she knew that it was her own fault that he could not think otherwise. She took his hand in her own warm fingers, and held it closely against her breast.
"Jeff, dear, look at me. I'm not the woman that I used to be. I'm the real Camilla, now—the Camilla you always hoped I'd be. I'm changed. Something has happened to me. I want you to understand—I'm not a graven image now, Jeff, I'm just—your wife."
He looked at her, bewildered, but in her eyes he saw that what she said was true. They were different eyes from the ones he had known—softened, darker—and looked up into his own pleadingly, wet with compassion, the tender, compelling eyes of a woman whose soul is awakened. She released his hand and threw her arms around his neck, lifting her face to his. "Don't you understand, Jeff? I want you. I want you. I've never wanted anybody else."
His arms tightened about her, and their lips met. She was tangible now—no mere image to be worshipped from afar, but a warm idol of flesh and blood, to be taken into one's heart and enshrined there.
"Camilla, girl. Is it true?"
"Yes," she whispered, "it has always been true—only I didn't know it. I love you, Jeff. I love you—oh, how I love you! Better than myself—better than all the world. Do you realize it now?"
He took her head between his hands and held it away so that he might look deep into her eyes and be sure. Their lashes dropped once or twice and hid them, but that made them only the more lovely when they opened again. For in them he read the whole measure of his happiness and hers.