“Sorry, perhaps,” echoed the man, “and regret—possibly. Anyway, what does it matter? It’s true.”
“True—no,” swiftly. “I can’t believe it. I won’t. Don’t say that. In pity, don’t.”
“But, I repeat, it is true,” doggedly. “I at least can’t help that. Elice, don’t cry so!” Of a sudden he was on his feet bending over her. “Please don’t. I love you!”
“Don’t touch me! I can’t stand it!” The girl had drawn away swiftly, the repression of years for an instant broken. “You dare to tell me that—now! Love—” She cut herself short with an effort of will and, rising hurriedly, 315 walked the length of the room to the window. For more than a minute, while Armstrong stood staring after her dumbly, she remained so; her face pressed against the cold pane, looking out upon the white earth. Deliberately, normally, she turned. Seemingly without an effort, so naturally that even Armstrong was deceived, she smiled.
“Pardon me,” she said evenly. “I’m not often hysterical.” She was returning slowly. “I’ll be glad when vacation comes. I think I’m—tired.” She seated herself and motioned the other back into his place,—a motion that was a command. “Now, tell me, please, that you didn’t mean what you said a moment ago when we were both irresponsible. It will make us both sleep better.”
The smile had left Armstrong’s face now, and in its place was the pallor of reaction. But he was quiet also.
“I wish I could,” he said steadily, “but I can’t. It’ll be exactly as it was before.”
The girl was still smiling,—that same normal, apparently effortless, smile.
“Nonsense!” she refuted, in tones deliberately matter-of-fact. “There’s all the difference in the world. Before you had no 316 audience. And now—the entire country will listen now.”
“It doesn’t matter,” dully. “It’s always been you that counted really. Success was an incident, but you were the real incentive.”