Richling began to hum, with a playful manner:—
“‘And she’s all the world to me.’
Is that being too”—
“Stop!” said Mary. “That’s it.” She laid her hand upon his shoulder. “You’ve said it. That’s what I ought not to be!”
“Why, Mary, what on earth”— His face flamed up “John, I’m willing to be more than all the rest of the world to you. I always must be that. I’m going to be that forever. And you”—she kissed him passionately—“you’re all the world to me! But I’ve no right to be all the world to you. And you mustn’t allow it. It’s making it too small!”
“Mary, what are you saying?”
“Don’t, John. Don’t speak that way. I’m not saying anything. I’m only trying to say something, I don’t know what.”
“Neither do I,” was the mock-rueful answer.
“I only know,” replied Mary, the vision of Dr. Sevier’s carriage passing before her abstracted eyes, and of the Doctor’s pale face bowing austerely within it, “that if you don’t take any part or interest in the outside world it’ll take none in you; do you think it will?”
“And who cares if it doesn’t?” cried John, clasping her to his bosom.