“I—I know it, Hal,” she admitted reluctantly, but with her usual honesty. “I—I haven’t wished you to talk of love to me. There were times last winter”—she stopped in confusion—“when I thought you cared—a little. I—I wasn’t sure.”
“Be very sure of it, now.” Hal’s reply was a mixture of tenderness and dejection.
“I don’t want you to love me, Hal,” Marjorie cried out almost sharply in her desire to be emphatic. “Last night, after what you said to me on the beach, I couldn’t help but be sure. I—I told Captain of it. I always tell her everything. Captain is sorry I don’t love you. She and General are fond of you. They’d be happy if we were—if we were—to become engaged.” Marjorie spoke the last words hesitatingly.
“I’m glad you told your mother. You know how fine I think both General and Captain are.” Hal fought back the hurt look that threatened to invade his face. He gripped the wheel until his knuckles stood out whitely against the sun-tanned brown of his hands.
Marjorie caught a glimpse of the unhappiness which sprang straight from her old comrade’s sore heart and into his eyes.
“There; I’ve hurt you, Hal! Truly I never meant to!” she exclaimed in quick contrition.
“Never mind me.” Hal made a gesture of self-depreciation. “It isn’t your fault because you can’t find it in your heart to love me.” He forced a smile, proudly trying to conceal his own desolation of spirit.
Her eyes remorsefully fixed on him the smile did not deceive Marjorie. Hal’s tensity of feature informed her of the weight of the blow she had just dealt him.
“Please, please, Hal, forgive me!” she begged with a sudden excess of pained humility.
“Forgive you? For what?” Hal bent a fond questioning glance on Marjorie’s troubled face.