“See here, Lucille,” he said, going closer to her, “I’ve wanted very much to see you; to tell you how badly I feel about this will business.”
“It is not your fault, Sam—”
“I know. But to deprive you of anything—” His voice shook with a depth of feeling which surprised Curtis, an unwilling listener to their conversation. “I wish to God I could find that codicil giving you the million dollars, even though it would put the final barrier between us.”
“Sam!”
“I’ve asked you a dozen times to marry me.” Hollister made a brave attempt to smile humorously, but the look of passionate love and sorrow in his eyes told a story of self-effacement and dogged devotion to an ideal. “I know that I am not much to look at, and while I’m not poor, I am not a millionaire. Just the same, Lucille, I’d give my life to serve you—to save you from pain.”
“Sam!” Lucille’s eyelids were wet with unshed tears as she laid her hand on the little lawyer’s.
“You are the best and truest friend—”
“And nothing else.” Hollister sighed forlornly. “There, I won’t detain you, Lucille. You look utterly weary. Go to bed, dear.” He turned away quickly, fearing he might say more, and thereby missed her quick, furtive glance at him as she ran softly up the staircase.
Curtis was sitting at the telephone stand when Hollister appeared in the library.
“I couldn’t find you in your bedroom, Curtis,” explained Hollister, drawing up a chair. “I thought perhaps that you might be here, so came down. I hope you are not in a hurry to go to bed.”