“Ah, don’t!” she implored, twisting her hands together in her lap.
“Last night,” she went on after a moment, “last night I was so happy!”—her voice faltered so that he hardly heard—“but only for a little while. Ten minutes, I think. Larry, in the midst of my happiness, the old haunting, miserable feeling, that I was treading down part of my own nature in hurting mother, came back! I—” she pushed her hair back from her white face— “And then the telegram came; and after a little while I saw it all: what I must do—what my life was to be!” she added bitterly.
Carey looked at her a moment. He rose from his seat and came deliberately and knelt beside her.
“All this can wait,” he said firmly. He put his arms round her, and drew her towards him. She hesitated for a second, then turned to him with a cry, and put up her lips to his.
She drew herself away presently, shuddering and cowering in her chair.
“Don’t—oh Larry, don’t! If I cry I can’t tell you, and I must—I must,” she wailed—“it must be settled now.”
“Yes; it must be settled now,” he said, rising and dragging his chair closer to hers.
She recognized the tone, and shuddered again. He meant to reason with her, to argue point by point; she could never hope to explain properly, it would last so long, such a terribly long time!
“Larry, I’m worn out already!” she urged pitifully—“don’t.”
“You poor little girl! We won’t talk about it. To-morrow will do.”