She started. Her face lost its imperturbability. She said, "And that is all you have to say to me?"
He leaned toward her, his throat filling with a storm of words. But then he fell back, lowering his head. "Yes," he said in a low voice. "That is all—that and—please think as well as you can of me, Mary. And go on—loving John and taking care of him."
Her lips were twitching a little now. "Do you want to know what I really think of you?" she asked suddenly.
He raised his tired eyes, his eyes that were saying what his lips were sealed against, and he nodded his head.
She suddenly left her chair and came to him, laid her hands upon his shoulders, and said clearly and proudly, "I think that you are a terrible fibber. I think you have a crazy notion that John and I are in love. And I know this—I love you, Rodrigo, and you are never going to leave me again."
And then he reached out and clutched her fiercely, devouringly into his arms, kissed her again and again, crying her name pitifully like a baby. And when at last he, still holding her tightly, raised her face so that he could look at it and prove he was not dreaming, he saw that she too was weeping.
He cried, "Mary! Mary! Oh, my dear," again and again. And again and again he kissed her.
Finally he let her go to adjust her disheveled hair and clothes into some semblance of order. She smiled at him and asked, "How could you think I could love anybody but you—coward or no coward? Oh, I found out while you were gone how foolish I was ever to risk losing you. I lay awake reviling myself that I had sent you away—yes, I did send you. And I had to have you back—or dash over to Europe and search for you."
"But John?" he asked. "I thought John and you——"
"I love John too, but as a brother. I always have. And he has felt the same towards me. But you—oh, my poor, poor boy!" He seized her greedily again, and his lips were upon hers as a knock sounded upon the door. He released her, looked at her so guiltily that she laughed aloud.