It was I, myself. It was I,
and not you, who was not 'good enough'! For even if I am the kind of a
girl who can't love anybody, very much, except, perhaps, herself, I
should at least play fair. Isn't--isn't that so?"
Minute after minute passed while she sat plaiting the cloth
tight-stretched over one knee. Lips softly aquiver, she waited,
earnest, eager that he understand from her explanation that which she
did not yet understand at all herself. Again she wished that he would
turn; she wanted greatly to see whatever there might be behind his
heavy silence.
"Isn't it?" she faltered timidly.
And yet, when his head did come around she found she couldn't face him.
"Is it my turn now?" he asked.
Her answer was barely audible.
"If--if you have to--have it. But I've told you how useless it is."
"Would you mind looking at me, just a minute?" said Steve.
The brown head drooped even lower over the restless fingers. It shook,
ever so faintly.
"I'd rather not. . . . I'm listening!"
His laugh lilted recklessly in sheer joy at her refusal.
"Then I'll have to tell you," he stated, "that I'm smiling in spite of
the hopelessness. I'm smiling, even though my throat is aching and my
lips pretty dry.
"You've just finished trying to argue my man's case from your woman's
point of view--one of the hardest, least satisfactory things that could
be attempted, no doubt.
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