“Why not?”
“Because I’m only a small town man with a mighty fine wife and you are a genius coming here to amuse yourself, to make yourself forget some one who doesn’t love you—and that’s not a wise combination! I’m liable to lose my head ... I kept it pretty well after you left.”
“Do you blame me?” She seemed contrite herself. “Were you fair?”
“I suppose not. It was just the choice of two futures—you chose the one intended for you. Only now that you’ve chosen, don’t keep on bruising yourself and every one else by trying to—trying to—”
“Don’t you want to see me?” She was determined to have some one want to see her own self, whether or not she sang a single note.
“Don’t I want to? I’ll always want to.” He came closer to her. “Were you never sorry you went away? It would help a lot to know.”
Closing her eyes and remembering as little of the three years as was possible, nothing of her vow or Lorraine, Thurley gave vent to her starved womanhood. “A little,” she whispered.
“Then I will see you and be your pal,” was his answer. “Let me be just that. No one can say there’s any harm in it—not even ’Raine. I’ll have her call on you, Thurley; that will make it right.” He was very close now, his cheek almost touched her own. She drew away.
“In opera those tenors make love as if you were their own,” he said savagely. “I hated to see it!”
“But you were on your wedding journey,” she reminded.