"Mary, what's the matter? I'm such a fool, but—oh, Mary, dear!"
With that Mary-dear straightened and, slipping her clutch to the lapel of his old coat, spoke. She looked into his eyes with a smile that was sweeter—oh, much sweeter!—for tears that dimmed it, and she choked most awfully between words. "Jim"—and a choke. "Jim, I'm terrified to think I nearly let you get away. You. And me not worthy to lace your shoes—" ("Oh, gracious, Mary—don't!") "me—the idiot, backing and filling when I had the chance of my life at—at a hero. Oh, Jim!"
"Here! Mary, don't you understand? I've [pg 158] been telling you I was scared blue. I hated to tell you Mary, and it's the devil to tell you twice—"
What was this? Did Heaven then sometimes come down unawares on the head of an every-day citizen with great lapses of character? Jim Barlow, entranced, doubted his senses yet could not doubt the touch of soft hands clasped in his neck. He held his head back a little to be sure that they were real. Yes, they were there, the hands—Barlow's next remark was long, but untranslatable. Minutes later. "Mary, tell me what you mean. Not that I care much if—if this." Language grows elliptical under stress. "But—did you get me? I'm—a coward." A hand flashed across his mouth.
"Don't you dare, Jim, you're the bravest—bravest—"
The words died in a sharp break. "Why, Jim it was a hundred thousand times pluckier to be afraid and then go. Can't you see that, you big stupid?"
"But, Mary, you said you admired it when—when you thought I was a lion of courage."
"Of course. I admired you. Now I adore you."
"Well," summed up, Barlow bewildered, "if women aren't the blamedest!"
And Mary squealed laughter. She put hands each side of his face. "Jim—listen. I'll try to explain because you have a right to understand."