“Happier! Why Glenn, I’d be miserable!... But listen. It wasn’t my beautiful and useless hand I wanted you to see. It was my engagement ring.”
“Oh!—Well?” he went on, slowly.
“I’ve never had it off since you left New York,” she said, softly. “You gave it to me four years ago. Do you remember? It was on my twenty-second birthday. You said it would take two months’ salary to pay the bill.”
“It sure did,” he retorted, with a hint of humor.
“Glenn, during the war it was not so—so very hard to wear this ring as an engagement ring should be worn,” said Carley, growing more earnest. “But after the war—especially after your departure West it was terribly hard to be true to the significance of this betrothal ring. There was a let-down in all women. Oh, no one need tell me! There was. And men were affected by that and the chaotic condition of the times. New York was wild during the year of your absence. Prohibition was a joke.—Well, I gadded, danced, dressed, drank, smoked, motored, just the same as the other women in our crowd. Something drove me to. I never rested. Excitement seemed to be happiness—Glenn, I am not making any plea to excuse all that. But I want you to know—how under trying circumstances—I was absolutely true to you. Understand me. I mean true as regards love. Through it all I loved you just the same. And now I’m with you, it seems, oh, so much more!... Your last letter hurt me. I don’t know just how. But I came West to see you—to tell you this—and to ask you.... Do you want this ring back?”
“Certainly not,” he replied, forcibly, with a dark flush spreading over his face.
“Then—you love me?” she whispered.
“Yes—I love you,” he returned, deliberately. “And in spite of all you say—very probably more than you love me.... But you, like all women, make love and its expression the sole object of life. Carley, I have been concerned with keeping my body from the grave and my soul from hell.”
“But—dear—you’re well now?” she returned, with trembling lips.
“Yes, I’ve almost pulled out.”