Suddenly Edith, beside him, ran her hand through his arm.
“If I had been a different sort of girl, Willy, do you think—could you ever have cared for me?”
“I never thought about you that way,” he said, simply. “I do care for you. You know that.”
She dropped her hand.
“You are in love with Lily Cardew. That's why you don't—I've known it all along, Willy. I used to think you'd get over it, never seeing her and all that. But you don't, do you?” She looked up at him. “The real thing lasts, I suppose. It will with me. I wish to heaven it wouldn't.”
He was most uncomfortable, but he drew her hand within his arm again and held it there.
“Don't get to thinking that you care anything about me,” he said. “There's not as much love in the world as there ought to be, and we all need to hold hands, but—don't fancy anything like that.”
“I wanted to tell you. If I hadn't known about her I wouldn't have told you, but—you said it when you said there's not as much love as there ought to be. I'm gone, but I guess my caring for you hasn't hurt me any. It's the only reason I'm alive to-day.”
She freed her hand, and stood staring out over the little autumn garden. There was such brooding trouble in her face that he watched her anxiously.
“I think mother suspects,” she said at last.