It was quite in the old, spoiled-child tone; an echo of indestructible personality, the Weeping Scion of other days; and it went straight to Mary’s swelling, bewildered, groping heart. She began to laugh and a sob tangled itself in the laughter, and she choked and said:
“Buddy.”
He turned toward her.
“Don’t be dumb, Buddy,” she said, in the words of their unforgotten first talk. “You’ve—you’ve got me—if you still want me.”
She put out a tremulous hand to him, and it slipped over his shoulder and around his neck, and she was drawn close into his arms.
“The Little Red Doctor,” remarked David after an interlude, in the shaken tone of one who has had undeserved miracles thrust upon him, “said that to want something more than anything in the world and not get it was good for my soul, besides serving me right.”
“The Little Red Doctor,” retorted Mary McCartney, with the reckless ingratitude of a woman in love, “is a dear little red idiot. What does he know about Us!”