“What time did you come in, Gage?”
“About midnight.”
“You look as if you’d slept wretchedly. Did you?”
“Well, enough.” His tone was surly. He could not bear to look at her, shining haired, head held high, confidence, strength, balance of mind, justice, radiating from her. He knew what a contrast he made—she did not need to tell him of his heavy, encircled eyes, his depressed mouth.
She pushed his hair back from his forehead, standing beside his chair. It was a familiar gesture between them.
“Gage, you mean more than anything else to me. You know that?”
He mumbled an answer.
“But don’t resent it so awfully because I can’t believe that loving is a woman’s only job. We mustn’t absorb each other.”
Quoted, he thought bitterly, from Margaret Duffield. Quite reasonable too. Very reasonable. He suddenly hated her for her reasoning which was denied to his struggling instincts. All desire, all love in his heart had curdled to a sodden lump of resentment.
He picked up the paper. There was Helen, marching across the page, smiling into the camera’s eyes. Curious men with hats and crowding women showed in the blurred background. He looked from the picture to the real Helen.