She was delicately pretty, sitting so still in her big chair.
'I wrote them straight at you,' he said, low, earnest. 'Every word.'
Even Henry caught the extreme emphasis of this, and hurried to elaborate.
'You see I was just sick Tuesday night. Everything had gone wrong with me. And then that horrible story that wasn't true. I knew I shouldn't have spoken of it to you, but—well, it was just driving me crazy, and I couldn't bear to think you might despise me like the others without ever knowing the truth. And... You see I must have felt the inspiration you... Even then, I mean...'
He was red. He seemed to be getting himself out of breath. And he was tugging at the roll of proofs in his pocket.
'Shall I—finish—this?'
'Oh, yes!' She sank into a great leather chair; looked up at him with glowing eyes. 'I want you to read me all of them. Please!'
She said it almost shyly.
Henry drew up a chair, found his place, and read on. And on. And on.
It was victory.