Because she found his beauty appealing to her as never before, her voice was the colder: "Any one's place can be filled."
"You don't care!" he cried out desperately.
"For Mr. Clinton? Yes, I admire his persistence in seeking God, and his wish to work for mankind. God comes easier to some than to others, and I believe I could help—"
Gregory, aghast at her measured tone, interrupted: "But I mean that you don't care—don't care for me."
"For—" she began abruptly, then added in an odd whisper, "for you?"
"Yes, for me…don't care how much I suffer, or whether I suffer at all—I mean my work, if it suffers. If I lose you, Grace—"
"Oh, you will always have Fran."
"Fran!" he ejaculated. "So you don't care, Grace…It seems incredible because I care so much. Grace!" His accent was that of utter despair. "How can I lose you since you are everything? What would be left to live for? Nobody else sympathizes with my aims. Who but you understands? Oh, nobody will ever sympathize—ever care—"
"But, Mr. Gregory!" she began, confused. Her face had grown white.
"Grace!" he caught her hand, expecting it to be snatched away—the hand he had hourly admired at its work; he could feel its warmth, caress its shapeliness—and it did not resist. It trembled. He was afraid to press it at first, lest it be wrenched free; and then, the next moment, he was clasping it convulsively. For the first time in her life, Grace did not meet his eyes.