She looked at him as if she knew the call. Since the world began, only for one reason does a man call a woman like that.
"What is it you want?" she said—and her voice was very sweet and very tired.
"I want more of you!" said Peter Cary.
She may have tried to say something, but her voice trembled away.
"I thought it would be everything—your coming here to-day," Peter said. "I've wanted it and wanted it. And what does it amount to? Nothing, except to make me wild with wanting you never to go away. I dread to think of your leaving me here—shutting the door and being gone. If it was just plain wanting you I could meet that, and beat it, like I do the things down to the works. But it isn't that. It's like it was something big—bigger than me, and outside of me, and it gets hold of me, and it's like it asked for you without my knowing. I can't do anything that you aren't some of it. It isn't fair, Miggy. I want more of you—all of you—all the time, Miggy, all the time...."
I should have liked to see Miggy's face when she looked at Peter, whose eyes were giving her everything and were asking everything of her; but I was studying the sunset, glory upon glory, to match the glory here. And the singing of Little Child began again, like that of a little voice vagrant in the red west....
"Oh, I can see a playmate there,
Far up in Splendour Town!"
Miggy heard her, and remembered.
"Peter, Peter!" she cried, "I couldn't—I never could bring us two on you to support."