"Why shouldn't the girl care for the boy after he came back? Why shouldn't she, Becky Bannister?"
Her startled gaze met his. "Let's sit down here," he said, "and have it out."
There was a bench on the edge of the bluff, set so that one might have a wider view of the sea.
"There ought to be a happy ending, Becky."
"How could there be?"
"Why not you—and Randy Paine? I haven't met him, but somehow that story tells me that he is the right sort. And think of it, Becky, you and that boy—in that big house down there, going to church, smiling across the table at each other," his breath came quickly, "your love for him, his for you, making a background for his—genius."
She tried to stop him. "Why should you say such things?"
"Because I have thought them. Last night in the storm—I couldn't sleep. I—I wanted to be a dog in the manger. I couldn't have you, and I'd be darned if I'd help anyone else to get you. You—you see, I'm a sort of broken reed, Becky. It—it isn't a sure thing that I am going to get well. And if what I feel for you is worth anything, it ought to mean that I must put your happiness—first. And that's why I want to make the picture for the—happy ending."
Her hand went out to him. "It is a beautiful thing for you to do. But I am not sure that there will be a—happy ending."