She was looking up at him hard. She didn’t fully understand, but the boyish cleanliness of him struck her fully that moment. The power of his will which she felt was mainly the fierceness of his decision to speak. It wasn’t the burn of terrible hunger for her. He was young as a playmate: that’s what shook her now. He wanted to fix her place, to let her hands soften again, wanted to let her rest and breathe—not what the other girls laughed about.
“Why, Pidge, I’ve got to take care of you. I’ve got to straighten you out—if it’s only to marry you and go away.”
Something in her heart cracked like a mirror, and a sob broke out of her. It was as if a car that had been running along by itself suddenly left the road and went into a cliff—a warm, kind cliff. Somebody’s shoulder, and she was sobbing:
“I told you I was so tired! I told you I wasn’t safe——”
“Ah, little Pidge——” he was patting her arm and pressing her close.
It had come. This was it. It was rest. The other girls knew. The awful cold ache was broken—warmth of life pouring out of her—heavenly ease in the flood of tears, and something of the dearness of dreams was in his passion, not for her—but to do something for her.
The first whip stroke fell, when Pidge remembered how she looked when she cried. But if she could keep her face covered! She didn’t stir.... Was this the fullness of days? All the consummate essences of ease, he brought—no hunger, no dirt—and really she had fought long and hard.
“... Everything you want, Pidge,” he was whispering. “I’ll take you to my mother. She’s a regular sport, Pidge——”
“She’d have to be,” came from the incorrigible heart in his arms, but not aloud.
The second whip stroke—The Lance of the Rivernais. She had failed, and the failure wasn’t the book, but herself, the thing in his arms. She didn’t stir, but there was coldness of calculation to her thinking now—that he meant ease and rest and expediency, not the ripping, rioting, invincible man force that was to come one day and carry her off her feet.