“Clara,” he said, softly, “were you thinking of him when you sighed?”
Clara started. “Him!” she echoed, helplessly.
“Yes, Dick Conrad.”
“Not exactly, Henry. I was thinking of that terrible trip we took through the mountains—yes, I was in a way thinking of Dick.”
“You were very happy together, weren’t you? You were awfully in love with him, I mean. I’m not being impertinent, am I, Clara? You know I don’t intend to be.”
“No, Henry, I understand. I don’t believe I’m the kind of woman who falls in love—at least, in the way most people mean. There’s nothing very violent about me except once in a while when I get to singing something which takes hold of me pretty hard.
“Richard and I had a rather exciting little love affair, then after a while we both began to realize that we weren’t very romantic—in regard to people. He was passionately devoted to adventure of every kind, and I had a way of putting my best into music. I didn’t feel heart-broken when I found out that we really weren’t anything more than good friends and neither did he.
“I’d cheerfully give all I’ve got to bring Dick back; I get lonesome for him—awfully. And yet, that isn’t exactly the sort of thing that the average person means by ‘love,’ is it?”
“It would have made me very happy once to know that you cared that much for me,” answered Hard, bitterly.
“I did. I always did, Henry. Only we were—so near, so much a part of each other—like cousins. I called it friendship instead of love,” cried Clara, warmly.