But when Steve finally
asked for Devereau--Garry Devereau, who had followed him to the
hedge-gap that day and laid one hand upon his bowed, shamed
shoulder--the light went from Barbara's eyes. And Stephen O'Mara, who
did not understand at first the quick hurt which entered them, stopped
smiling, too.
"I liked him," Steve said simply. "I've always remembered and liked
him. Thinking of him and--and--has often kept me from being too lonely
nights when I was lonely enough."
That statement concerning his friend contained the first personal note
which had come from his lips. Barbara did not answer immediately, and
Steve thought that she was phrasing her own reply. He could not know
that she wanted a moment in which to contemplate the little hint of
diffidence in his voice and to wonder at herself for not having
wondered before if he had not, many, many times, been very lonely
indeed.
"Do you remember a little girl who was at our place the summer you were
here?" she asked finally. "A pale, red-lipped, very shy little thing
named Mary Graves?"
Stephen nodded.
"And do you remember how, even then, Garry seemed to care for her? He
was always supercilious with the rest of us; he tormented us or ignored
us entirely, but never her."
Again the inclination of the head.
"Well, he grew up just that way," Barbara went on, thoughtfully.
Pages:
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115