She touched his arm gently.
“I wish I were strong like you.”
“But I’m not strong,” he protested vehemently. “No one is. The strong man we read about is a writer’s lie. There isn’t a so-called strong man in history without a weak spot somewhere. Don’t make me weaker than I am. Perhaps—perhaps I ought to go away for a year and leave you free.”
The test propounded so tentatively failed utterly. In her turn she became vehement.
“No, no. If you leave me, Harry, it will be because your love is less than mine.”
As they gazed searchingly at each other a senile whistling was borne down the breeze. Cicely said desperately:
“Somebody is coming. Harry—suspense will kill me. Women understand women. Be patient, and mother will accept you as a son. I am sure of it. And I shall love the strength in you more if you show a little weakness now for my sake. Direct methods, which men use, are so brutal. I am pleading for our happiness. Promise me—quick!”
In her agitation she clung to him, pressing her soft body against his. He answered dully:
“All right, Cicely.”
The Ancient approached, redder than usual in the face. His gait was not perfectly steady. Cicely said hurriedly: