“Well, I've never been particularly shielded. It hasn't hurt me. I don't even hate her. But I'm puzzled sometimes. Where there's love it might be understandable. Most of us would hate to have to stand the test of real love, I daresay. There's a time in every one's life, I suppose, when love seems to be the only thing that matters.”
That was what the poet in that idiotic book had said: “There is no other joy.”
“Even you, Clay,” she reflected, smilingly. “You big, grave men go all to pieces, sometimes.”
“I never have,” he retorted.
She returned Chris's letter to him.
“There,” she said. “I've had my little whimper, and I feel better. Now talk to me.”
The little clock was striking six when at last he rose to go. The room was dark, with only the glow of the wood fire on Audrey's face. He found her very lovely, rather chastened and subdued, but much more appealing than in her old days of sparkle and high spirits.
“You are looking very sweet, Audrey.”
“Am I? How nice of you!”
She got up and stood on the hearth-rug beside him, looking up at him. Then, “Don't be startled, Clay,” she announced, smilingly. “I am going to kiss you—for Christmas.”