“No. And yet, if the other people are already unhappy?”
“Never!” she said. And the answer was to the unspoken question in both their hearts.
It was not until they were in the taxicab that Clayton forced the personal note, and then it came as a cry, out of the very depths of him. She had slipped her hand into his, and the comfort of even that small touch broke down the barriers he had so carefully erected.
“I need you so!” he said. And he held her hand to his face. She made no movement to withdraw it.
“I need you, too,” she replied. “I never get over needing you. But we are going to play the game, Clay. We may have our weak hours—and this is one of them—but always, please God, we'll play the game.”
The curious humility he felt with her was in his voice.
“I'll need your help, even in that.”
And that touch of boyishness almost broke down her reserve of strength. She wanted to draw his head down on her shoulder, and comfort him. She wanted to smooth back his heavy hair, and put her arms around him and hold him. There was a great tenderness in her for him. There were times when she would have given the world to have gone into his arms and let him hold her there, protected and shielded. But that night she was the stronger, and she knew it.
“I love you, Audrey. I love you terribly.”
And that was the word for it. It was terrible. She knew it.