It was so he remembered what he had come to tell Gila. Looking down to that exquisite bit of humanity almost within his embrace, a great tenderness for her, and longing, came over him, to make her know now all that the Presence was becoming to him.
"Gila," he whispered, and his voice was full of thrill. "Let's sit down awhile! There is something I want to tell you!"
Instantly she responded, lifting great innocent eyes, with one quick sweep, to his face, so moved and tender; and gliding toward the couch where they might sit together, settling down on it, almost nestling to him, then remembering and drawing away shyly to more perfectly play her part. She thought she knew what he was going to say. She thought she saw the love-light in his eyes, and it was so dazzling it almost blinded her. It frightened her a little, too, like the light in no lover's eyes that had ever drawn her down to whisper love to her before. She wondered if it was because she really cared herself so much now that it seemed so different.
But he did not take her in his arms as she had expected he would do; though he sat quite near, and spoke in a low, privileged tone, as one would do who had the right. His arm was across the back of the couch behind her; he sat sideways, turned toward her, and he still touched reverently the little hand he had been holding as they danced together.
"Gila, I have a story to tell you," he said. "Until you know it you can never understand me fully, and I want with all my heart to have you understand me. It is something that has become a part of me."
She sat quivering, wondering, half fearful. A gleam of jealousy came into her averted face. Was he going to tell her about another girl? A fierce, unreasoning anger shot across her face. She would not tolerate the thought that any one had had him before her. Was it—? It couldn't be that baby-faced pauper in the hospital? She drew her slim little body up tensely and waited for the story.
Courtland told the story of Stephen; told it well and briefly. He pictured Stephen so that the girl must needs admire. No woman could have heard that description of a man such as Stephen had been and not bow her woman's heart and wish that she might have known him.
Gila listened, fascinated, even up to the moment of the fire and the tragedy when Stephen fell into the flames. She shuddered visibly several times, but sat tense and still and listened. She even was unmoved when Courtland went on to tell of finding himself on a ledge above the burning mass, creeping somehow into a small haven, shut in by a wall of smoke, and feeling that this was the end. But when he began to tell of the Presence, the Light, the Voice, the girl gave a sudden start and gripped her cold hands together. Almost imperceptibly she drew her tense little body away from him, and turned slowly till she faced him, horror and consternation in her eyes, utter unbelief and scorn on her lips. But still she did not speak, still held her gaze on him and listened, while he told of coming back to life, the hospital walls, the strange emptiness, and the Presence; the recovery, and the Presence still with him; the going here and there and finding the Presence always before him and yet with him!
"He is here in this room with us, Gila!" he said, simply, as if he had been telling her that he had brought her some flowers and he hoped she would like them.
Then suddenly Gila gave a spring away from him to her feet, uttered a wild scream of terror, and burst into angry tears!