“Rather,” she admitted, grudgingly, from the shelter of his arms.
“I’m sorry. If you say so, I’ll burn it. Nothing is coming between you and me.” The words sounded hollow and meaningless, as he knew they were.
She put her hand over his mouth. “You won’t do any such thing,” she said. Dorothy had learned the bitterness of the woman’s part, to stand by, utterly lonely, and dream, and wait, while men achieve.
“Can I read it now?” she asked, timidly.
“You couldn’t make it out, Dorothy. When it’s all done, and every word is just as I want it, I’ll read it to you. That will be better, won’t it?”
“Can Dick come, too?” She asked the question thoughtlessly, then flushed as Harlan took her face between his hands.
“Dorothy, did you know Dick before we were married?”
“Why, Harlan! I never saw him in all my life till the day he came here. Did you think I had?”
Harlan only grunted, but she understood, and, in return, asked her question. “Did you write the book about Elaine?” she began, half ashamed.
“Dear little idiot,” said Harlan, softly. “I’d begun the book before she came or before I knew she was coming. I never saw her till she came to live with us. You’re foolish, dearest, don’t you think you are?”