“Nothing happened between you and him, Mary-Clare. You’re great stuff. Great! And so is he.”
A thin, blue-veined hand stole out and rested on Mary-Clare’s head and Mary-Clare looked down at the empty place where Larry’s strong right leg should have been. A divine pity stirred her, but she knew now, as always, that Larry did not crave pity; sympathy; and the awful Truth upheld Mary-Clare in her weak moment. She would never again fail herself or him by misunderstanding.
“When I’m well, Mary-Clare, you’ll be everything to me, won’t you? We’ll begin again. You, me, and little Noreen. You are lovely, girl! The lights in your hair dance, your neck is white, and–––”
The heart of Mary-Clare seemed to stop as the groping fingers touched her.
“Look at me, Mary-Clare!”
There was the tone of the conqueror in the words––Larry laughed. Then Mary-Clare looked at him! Long and unfalteringly she let her eyes meet his, and there was that in them that no man misunderstands.
“You mean you do not care?” Larry’s voice shook like a frightened child’s; “that you’ll never care?”
“I care tremendously, Larry, and I will do my best. But you must not ask for more.”
“Good God! and I crawled back for this!” The words 266 ended in a sob; “for this! I thought I could pay but I cannot––ever, ever!”