“We mustn’t think of that. It’s too big to think of that!”
“I guess you’re right. Now that is finished, going to forgive me because I walked over to Northrup?”
“I’ve nothing of any kind to forgive. It’s you, I think, that must forgive.”
“Oh, it’s all square, everything’s all square. I want to be good friends with you if you’ll let me. I hope,” his voice was almost tender, “you connect with the right man. He won’t have any too much blood in his neck, but he’ll have a lot of general culture in his system.”
Here she realized that she had something to forgive. She repeated, mentally, her act of renunciation as she said:
“You’re a great, strong, generous man. I can’t tell you how much I thank you for the course you’ve taken to-day. You’re going to succeed and—some woman—is going to be proud of you.” She had avoided by a thread 282 naming the woman. “I shall be glad I knew you, and I shall be your friend as long as you’ll let me.”
He smiled his old smile and his uninjured hand went out.
“Shake!” he said.
Yet it was a relief that the nurse came back and said quietly, “You’ve talked enough.” As she walked to the door, Eleanor found that her will was focused on the operation of her feet, commanding them to move with decent slowness. Had she obeyed her impulse, she should have run. She forced herself to turn at the door and smile back, forced herself to bridle her emotions and go quietly to breakfast and to her ordeal with the lightning thrusts of Kate Waddington.