“You've done a great thing this time,” she said. “Handitch will make you.”
“It opens big chances,” I said. “But why are you weeping, dear one?”
“Envy,” she said, “and love.”
“You're not lonely?”
“I've plenty to do—and lots of people.”
“Well?”
“I want you.”
“You've got me.”
She put her arm about me and kissed me. “I want you,” she said, “just as if I had nothing of you. You don't understand—how a woman wants a man. I thought once if I just gave myself to you it would be enough. It was nothing—it was just a step across the threshold. My dear, every moment you are away I ache for you—ache! I want to be about when it isn't love-making or talk. I want to be doing things for you, and watching you when you're not thinking of me. All those safe, careless, intimate things. And something else—” She stopped. “Dear, I don't want to bother you. I just want you to know I love you....”
She caught my head in her hands and kissed it, then stood up abruptly.