He flung it at her, unexpectedly. There was a moment’s intense silence. Then he said, “Oh, I hope you don’t think I am preaching——”
“No—no——” and suddenly her head went down on her arm, that beautiful burnished head.
She was crying!
“I’m sorry,” he told her, huskily.
And again there was silence.
She hunted for her handkerchief, and he handed her his. “You needn’t be sorry,” she said; “it seems—rather refreshing to have someone say things like that. Oh, I wonder if you know how hard we are—and cynical—the people of my set. And I don’t believe any of us ever—thank God.”
She wiped her eyes, found her own handkerchief, and handed his back to him. She did not know how he treasured it—afterward—a chalice for her tears. She found it many years later—shut away in a box with a sprig of heliotrope.
They talked for an hour after that. “There is no reason why you should hurry back,” Baldy said, “but I’d let your uncle tell people where you are. Then the papers will drop it, don’t you see?”
“I see. Of course I’ve been silly—but you can’t think how I suffered.”
She would not have admitted it to anyone else. But she met his sincerity with her own.