Douglas was surprised—horrified. For the first time, he had an inkling of the truth. He did not know what to do—what to say. Her disheveled, red-gold hair, her beaded dress of bright-colored cloth, her slender form shaking with sobs—all gave her the appearance of a grieved child. The temptation assailed him to take her in his arms, kiss away her tears, and tell her he loved her. But Amy Larkin’s face arose before him; and condemning himself for a weakling, he set his teeth and regained control of himself. When he felt equal to the task, he gently but firmly removed her hands from her face and said:
“There—you mustn’t cry anymore. I don’t doubt your friendship.”—He accented the word.—“You’ve been very kind to me; and I appreciate all you have done. Now, if you’ll listen, I’ll tell you the story of my life, in return for what you have told me of yours. Are you ready to hear me?”
“Yes,” she answered in an almost inaudible tone, as she dried her eyes and sought to compose her features.
Unheeding her evident embarrassment, and the dry sobs that at intervals shook her willowy form, he proceeded to tell her of himself. She listened with rapt attention. When he had finished his narrative, he said:
“You see, La Violette, there is great similarity in our experiences.”
“Yes,” she murmured softly.
“The knowledge should make us closer friends.”
He laid stress upon the word friends.
“I cannot be a better friend to you than I have been—than I have tried to be, at least,” she replied tremulously.
Then she arose and darted from the room.