She closed her eyes as if to shut out some sudden 171 glare too painful to be borne, and then in a quietly courageous voice she helped him out.
“You do want to tell me, Jack. You want to take back—what you said—over there—don’t you?”
Spurrier moistened his lips, with his tongue. “God knows,” he burst out vehemently, “I don’t want to take back one syllable of what I said—about loving you.”
“What is it, then?”
“Come inside, please,” he pleaded. “I’ll try to explain.”
He went stumblingly ahead of her and set a chair beside the table and then he leaned toward her and sought for words.
“I love you, Glory,” he fervently declared. “I love you as I didn’t suppose I could love any one. To me you are music and starlight—but I guess I’m almost engaged to her.” He jerked his head rebelliously toward the portrait.
Glory was numb except for a dull, very present ache that started in her heart and filled her to her finger tips, and she made no answer.
“Her father,” Spurrier forced himself on, “is a great financier. I’m his man. I’m a little cog in a big machine. It’s been practically understood that I was to become his son-in-law—his successor. I’m too deep in, to pull out. It’s like a soldier in the thick of a campaign. I’ve got to go through.”
That seemed an easier and kinder thing to say than that she herself was not qualified for full admittance into the world of his larger life.