“Yes, Larry.” Her voice was low, almost a whisper, and in her eyes an eager light shone.
“It just breaks my heart, Jane. We have been—we are such good friends. If we had only fallen in love with each other.—But that would have spoiled it all. We are not like other people; we have been such chums, Jane.”
“Yes, Larry,” she said again, but the eager light had faded from her eyes.
“Let's sit a bit, Larry,” she said. “I am tired, and you are tired, too,” she added quickly, “after your hard day.”
For a little time they sat in silence together, both shrinking from the parting that they knew was so near. Larry gazed at her, wondering to himself that he had ever thought her plain. Tonight she seemed beautiful and very dear to him. Next to his mother, was her place in his heart. Was this that he felt for her what they called love? With all his soul he wished he could take her in his arms and say, “Jane, I love you.” But still he knew that his words would not ring true. More than that, Jane would know it too. Besides, might not her feeling for him be of the same quality? What could he say in this hour which he recognised to be a crisis in their lives? Sick at heart and oppressed with his feeling of loneliness and impotence, he could only look at her in speechless misery. Then he thought she, too, was suffering, the same misery was filling her heart. She looked utterly spent and weary.
“Jane,” he said desperately. She started. She, too, had been thinking. “Scuddy is in love with Helen, Macleod is in love with Ethel. I wish to God I had fallen in love with you and you with me. Then we would have something to look forward to. Do you know, Jane, I am like a boy leaving home? We are going to drift apart. Others will come between us.”
“No, Larry,” cried Jane with quick vehemence. “Not that. You won't let that come.”
“Can we help it, Jane?” Then her weariness appealed to him. “It is a shame to keep you up. I have given you a hard day, Jane.” She shook her head. “And there is no use waiting. We can only say good-bye.” He rose from his chair. Should he kiss her, he asked himself. He had had no hesitation in kissing Helen an hour ago. That seemed a light thing to him, but somehow he shrank from offering to kiss Jane. If he could only say sincerely, “Jane, I love you,” then he could kiss her, but this he could not say truly. Anything but perfect sincerity he knew she would detect; and she would be outraged by it. Yet as he stood looking down upon her pale face, her wavering smile, her quivering lips, he was conscious of a rush of pity and of tenderness almost uncontrollable.
“Good-bye, Jane; God keep you always, dear, dear Jane.” He held her hands, looking into the deep blue eyes that looked back at him so bravely. He felt that he was fast losing his grip upon himself, and he must hurry away.
“Good-bye, Larry,” she said simply.